MFVTOMMY -DOVE 
TTO-OTHEfV  STORIES 


MR.  TOMMY    DOVE 


AND  OTHER   STORIES 


BY 


MARGARET   DELAND 

AUTHOR    OF    "JOHN   WARD,    PREACHER,"    "  SIDNEY  " 
"  THE   STORY    OF    A    CHILD,"    ETC. 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MTFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

($be  fiifcerside  $re00,  CambnD0e 

1894 


Copyriffht,.189S, 
BY  MARGARET  DKLAXD. 

All  riqhts  rtstrvtd. 


The  Rirfrsidf  Press.  Cnmbriihjf.  Miss.,  l~.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  aud  fluted  by  H.  O.  Houghton  Jt  Co. 


TO 
LORIN   DELAND, 

THEIR    FIRST    READER   AND    CRITIC, 
THESE    STORIES 

ARE 
DEDICATED. 

APRIL  It,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MR.  TOMMY  DOVE 1 

THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL 49 

ELIZABETH 116 

AT  WHOSE  DOOR  ? 160 

A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT .  201 


ME.  TOMMY  DOYE. 


I. 

THE  apothecary  shop  in  Old  Chester  stood  a 
little  back  from  the  street.  There  was  a  garden 
in  front  of  it,  but  the  fence  which  inclosed  it 
was  broken  in  places,  so  that  an  envious  hand, 
had  any  such  been  known  in  Old  Chester,  could 
easily  have  broken  off  a  cluster  of  cinnamon 
roses,  or  grasped  a  stately  stem  of  tall  white 
lilies. 

The  shop  itself  was  but  the  square  front  room 
of  Mr.  Tommy  Dove's  old  stone  house.  One 
of  the  windows  had  been  cut  down  to  make  a 
door,  so  that  customers  might  not  wear  out  the 
white-and-gray  oil-cloth  in  his  mother's  entry; 
and  the  two  front  doors,  side  by  side,  were  per 
haps  more  of  a  distinguishing  feature  than  the 
small  pestle  and  mortar,  which,  suspended  by 
wires  from  an  upper  window,  had  long  ago  given 
to  the  wind  and  rain  whatever  gilding  they  pos 
sessed. 

It  was  since  Mrs.  Dove's  death  that  the  fence 


MX.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

fallen  ouo  of  repair,  and  wayfarers  might 
be  tempted  by  the  bloom  and  richness  of  the 
garden ;  and  since  her  death,  too,  the  real  front 
door  had  not  been  opened,  and  gradually  the 
gray  house  had  lost  its  individuality  as  a  home 
to  become  merely  the  apothecary  shop. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  closed  shutters  of  the  up 
per  rooms  and  the  silent  entries,  Tommy  Dove 
still  tried  to  feel  that  he  had  a  home.  He  was 
glad  to  close  the  shop  at  night,  first  arranging 
the  cord  of  the  jangling  bell,  that  he  might  be 
summoned  if  he  were  needed,  and  then  going 
into  the  kitchen,  to  eat,  all  alone,  the  somewhat 
uncomfortable  supper  which  had  been  prepared 
for  him  by  the  woman  who  took  charge  of  the 
house.  He  would  open  a  book  beside  his  plate, 
and  eat,  and  read,  and  dream,  until  Mrs.  Mc 
Donald's  heavy  step  warned  him  that  she  was 
impatient  to  put  the  kitchen  to  rights  for  the 
night.  After  she  had  gone,  and  everything  was 
in  stiff  and  uncomfortable  order,  Tommy  would 
rub  his  hands  together,  and  listen  to  the  kettle 
singing  on  the  fire,  and  think  how  cozy  he  was, 
and  how  independent.  But  these  moments  of 
satisfaction  held  always  a  strange  consciousness 
of  disappointment  in  himself,  for  he  was  not 
mourning  for  his  mother !  Anybody  who  knew 
anything  about  the  late  Mrs.  Dove  would  have 
said  "No  wonder!"  —  but  her  son,  who  knew 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  3 

more  than  any  one  else,  felt  only  his  own  loss  in 
being  unable  to  grieve  for  her.  He  did  not 
understand  the  pang  of  regret  for  an  unf elt  sor 
row,  the  human  claim  for  the  human  experience ; 
he  only  knew  vaguely  that  he  was  missing  some 
richness  in  his  life,  and  there  was  always  the 
effort  to  drive  his  thoughts  back  to  his  own  lone 
liness. 

"Ah,  it 's  hard  on  a  man  to  have  to  make  his 
own  tea  and  look  after  his  household  affairs," 
he  would  remind  himself,  ashamed  and  remorse 
ful  because  of  his  content. 

It  pleased  the  apothecary  to  say  "household 
affairs,"  and  it  pleased  him  yet  more  to  meditate 
upon  them  in  silence,  with  no  shrill  interrup 
tions  or  commands.  After  long  repression  and 
distrust,  it  was  with  a  kind  of  wondering  joy 
that  this  obedient  son  found  the  keys  of  the 
china-closet  and  the  linen-press  in  his  posses 
sion.  True,  their  contents  had  no  especial 
value, —  "An  ill-favoured  thing,  sir,  but  mine 
own."  He  counted  the  sheets  and  pillow-cases, 
and  laid  fresh  sprigs  of  lavender  among  them 
with  his  own  hands,  and  he  cautioned  Mrs. 
McDonald  to  be  careful  in  washing  the  old  blue 
cups  and  saucers.  He  wished  that  she  would 
not  always  reply,  "Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Tommy. 
Don't  fret,  dear."  She  meant  it  kindly,  he 
was  sure,  but  it  hurt  his  new-born  dignity  a 
little. 


4  Ml?.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

"If  mother  had  only  called  me  '  Thomas  '  in 
stead  of  'Tommy,'  "  he  thought,  "people  would 
have  treated  me  with  more  respect." 

But,  if  a  man's  own  family  snub  him,  he  need 
not  hope  for  anything  more  reverent  than  kind 
ness  from  his  immediate  world.  In  a  vague  way 
Mr.  Tommy  realized  this,  and  accepted  the 
friendly  nickname  without  a  protest. 

Part  of  the  joy  of  being  free,  of  being  able  to 
do  as  he  liked,  expressed  itself  in  the  apothe 
cary's  garden.  While  his  mother  was  alive  he 
had  been  obliged  to  rise  early  and  work  hard, 
and  prune  and  train  his  plants  according  to 
Mrs.  Dove's  ideas.  But  now  he  no  longer 
started  at  the  whir  of  his  alarm  clock  at  four  in 
the  morning,  dearly  as  he  loved  his  garden,  and 
much  as  he  missed  those  hours  of  the  misty 
dawn  among  his  flowers :  the  tropaeolums  should 
trail  halfway  across  the  gravel  path,  if  they 
wanted  to;  and  the  sweet  peas  might  clamber 
up  into  the  white  rosebush,  if  it  pleased  them ; 
Tommy  would  not  train  them.  He  sometimes 
thought  he  knew  how  they  had  felt  in  those 
days  of  precise  order.  The  broken  fence  did 
trouble  him  a  little,  but  that  it  should  not  be 
mended  was  his  unconscious  protest  at  the  past. 
Yet  he  did  bestir  himself  in  this  matter  a 
week  before  the  Temples  came  back  to  Old 
Chester.  He  was  unwilling  that  Mr.  Temple 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  5 

should  notice  any  disorder  about  the  shop,  or 
that  little  Dick  Temple  should  find  the  garden 
such  a  tangled  growth  that  he  could  not  see  the 
seeds  of  the  balloon -vine  which  he  used  to  love 
to  crack  against  his  rosy  cheek;  nor  could  he 
bear  to  have  Miss  Jane  think  that  he  neglected 
his  plants.  So  it  was  really  a  relief  to  him, 
when  he  sat  down  at  his  tea-table  one  June 
evening,  to  know  that  the  fence  was  mended, 
and  not  a  single  weed  was  hidden  among  the 
flowers.  He  seated  himself  by  the  open  kitchen 
window,  and,  rocking  slowly  back  and  forth, 
stirred  his  tea  with  a  small,  thin  spoon.  The 
morning-glory  leaves  outside  made  a  frame  for 
the  distant  hills,  and  for  the  yellow  sunset  with 
its  filmy  bars  of  gray  cloud.  Tommy  was  think 
ing  how  long  it  was  since  the  great  house  at  the 
other  end  of  the  village  had  been  opened.  Yes, 
it  was  surely  eight  years  since  the  Temples  had 
been  in  Old  Chester. 

He  tried  to  adjust  his  thought  of  Dick. 
"Why,  he  must  be  quite  a  boy,"  he  said.  "And 
there  was  a  baby  girl,  too.  I  suppose  she  has 
grown  a  great  deal."  He  felt  a  kindly,  sim 
ple  interest  in  all  the  family ;  and  then  he  re 
flected  that  the  Temples  would  sympathize  with 
him  because  of  his  mother's  death.  That  they 
knew  all  about  it  the  apothecary  did  not  doubt. 
Was  it  not  the  most  important  event  of  his  life? 


6  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

He  wondered  if  Miss  Jane  had  changed  much; 
he  even  sighed  a  little  as  he  thought  of  her. 
Miss  Jane  Temple,  living  in  her  brother's  rich, 
comfortable  house,  with  strong,  bright  interests 
all  around  her,  seemed  to  this  silent  and  some 
what  timid  man  like  a  being  from  another  world. 
Henry  Temple's  light-hearted  indifference  to 
everything  outside  of  his  own  life  had  always 
awed  the  apothecary;  but  Miss  Jane,  in  spite 
of  her  different  world,  was  not  like  her  brother, 
—  she  was  kind,  Tommy  Dove  thought,  and 
gentle ;  so  that  when  he  saw  her  alone,  on  those 
rare  days  when  she  came  to  the  shop,  he  was  not 
at  all  afraid  of  her. 

uYes,"  he  said  to  himself,  putting  his  cup 
and  saucer  down  on  the  window-sill,  "I  should 
n't  wonder  a  bit  if  she  came  in  to  tell  me  she 
sympathized  with  me,  she  's  so  kind." 

And  he  was  right  in  thinking  Jane  Temple 
would  condole  with  him.  She  heard  of  Mrs. 
Dove's  death  soon  after  her  return,  and,  know 
ing  less  of  the  character  of  the  deceased  than 
most  of  Old  Chester,  she  came  very  soon  to  the 
apothecary  shop  to  say,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
that  she  had  heard  of  Mr.  Tommy's  loss,  and 
she  was  so  sorry.  She  was  thinking  of  her  own 
mother  as  she  spoke.  "It  is  very  sad  for  you, 
Mr.  Tommy,"  she  said;  "I  —I  know  how  sad 
it  is." 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  1 

She  bad  walked  up  the  smooth  gravel  path 
with  little  Effie  Temple  hanging  upon  her  hand, 
and  she  stood  now  at  the  low  stone  step.  Mr. 
Tommy,  leaning  on  his  half -door  and  looking 
absently  at  the  bloom  and  tangle  of  his  garden, 
had  straightened  up  as  he  saw  her  coming,  and 
hurried  out  to  take  the  hand  she  extended,  and 
to  stumble  through  some  sort  of  greeting. 

"And  who  is  this  little  girl?"  he  inquired, 
buttoning  his  coat  up  to  his  chin  with  nervous 
fingers.  The  child's  calm  stare  disconcerted 
him  even  more  than  Miss  Jane's  presence. 

"This  is  my  niece  Effie,"  Miss  Jane  an 
swered,  smiling,  for  the  little  girl  did  not  speak. 
"She  was  a  baby  when  we  left  Old  Chester." 

"Oh,  yes, "replied  Mr.  Tommy,  —  "oh,  dear 
me,  yes,  indeed.  I  remember  there  was  a  baby. 
Won't  you  step  in,  Miss  Jane?  —  and  perhaps 
the  little  girl  will  let  me  make  some  hollyhock 
ladies  to  amuse  her?" 

Effie  frowned,  but  looked  interested.  "What 
are  hollyhock  ladies?"  she  demanded. 

Her  aunt  did  not  go  into  the  shop,  though  Mr. 
Tommy  held  the  half -door  hospitably  open. 

"I  will  just  wait  here,"  she  said;  and  so 
while  Mr.  Tommy  went  over  to  the  row  of  holly 
hocks,  and  stood  bareheaded  in  the  sunshine, 
filling  his  hat  with  the  silky  blossoms,  white 
and  buff,  rose -color  and  deep  wine -red,  she  sat 


8  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

resting  on  the  warm,  broad  step.  She  watched 
the  row  of  pigeons  sunning  their  white  breasts 
on  the  ridgepole  of  the  barn,  and  listened  to 
their  long,  rippling  coo.  A  shadow  from  the 
honeysuckle  about  the  door  blew  back  and  forth 
across  the  path,  and  up  from  the  garden  came 
the  scent  of  sweet  alyssum  and  mignonette. 

When  Mr.  Tommy  came  back,  Effie,  with 
her  hands  behind  her,  and  grave,  unresponsive 
face,  watched  him  strip  off  the  calyx  and  bend 
back  the  petals,  leaving  a  puffy  yellow  ball  with 
nodding  plumes  upon  a  slender  neck.  The 
apothecary's  fingers  seemed  all  thumbs  under 
the  calmly  critical  gaze  of  the  child,  but  he 
managed  to  tie  a  blade  of  grass  around  the 
middle  of  the  folded  petals. 

"That  is  a  sash,''  he  explained  nervously. 

"I  don't  think,"  Effie  observed  slowly,  "that 
anybody  would  know  they  were  intended  for 
ladies." 

"Oh,  Effie,  dear!"  said  Miss  Jane  plead 
ingly. 

But  Tommy  hastened  to  agree  with  the  child. 
"Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "Oh,  dear  me,  of  course 
not.  They  don't  look  at  all  like  ladies.  But 
when  I  was  a  little  boy  I  used  to  think  they 
did,  and  I  made  whole  families  of  them  when 
the  hollyhocks  were  in  blossom;  they  were  my 
dolls,  you  know." 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

"I  didn't  know  boys  played  with  dolls," 
Effie  answered. 

Miss  Jane  looked  distressed  and  apologetic ; 
and  it  was  perhaps  because  she  feared  Mr. 
Tommy's  feelings  had  been  hurt  that  she  went 
through  the  shop  into  the  small  sitting-room  be 
yond,  and  listened  while  he  told  her  of  his  mo 
ther's  sickness  and  death.  But  Effie's  presence 
embarrassed  him  so  much  that,  with  a  nervous 
desire  to  propitiate  her,  he  opened  the  door  of  a 
corner-closet  and  took  out  a  cup  and  saucer  of 
thin,  fine  china.  There  were  little  faded  lavender 
flowers  scattered  over  it,  and  the  gilt  upon  the 
handle  was  somewhat  worn,  but  it  was  delicate 
and  pretty,  and  Tommy,  standing  in  a  streak 
of  sunshine,  with  one  lean  hand  upon  the  door  of 
the  closet,  looked  with  wistful  blue  eyes  at  Effie. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "the  little  girl  will  take 
this  little  gift.  I  should  be  pleased  if  she  would 
accept  it." 

"Oh,  it  is  so  pretty,  Mr.  Tommy,"  said  Miss 
Jane.  It  would  not  be  kind  to  decline  it,  she 
thought,  since  Effie  had  been  so  naughty.  "Say 
'thank  you,'  Effie,"  she  instructed  her  niece, 
who  was  holding  the  cup  in  silence;  "Indeed, 
you  are  too  good,  Mr.  Tommy;  it's  very  pret 
ty!"  she  ended,  with  nervous  emphasis.  And, 
in  her  mild  way,  as  they  walked  home,  she 
reproved  the  child  because  she  had  not  seemed 
pleased. 


10  ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

But  Effie  was  never  known  to  hesitate  for  an 
excuse. 

"Well,  but,  aunty,"  she  explained,  "why 
should  that  man  give  me  a  cup  and  saucer? 
Haven't  we  hundreds  of  cups  and  saucers? 
And  he  kept  calling  me  'little  girl,' — and  his 
ridiculous  old  hollyhock  ladies  !  " 


II. 

This  little  visit  of  Miss  Jane's  gave  Tommy 
Dove  much  to  reflect  upon. 

How  gentle  she  was,  how  low  her  voice,  how 
condescending  her  manner  !  Mr.  Tommy  knew 
no  better  than  to  call  Miss  Jane's  timidity  con 
descension,  but  that  did  not  make  him  less 
happy.  There  was  no  one  in  Old  Chester  in  the 
least  like  her,  he  thought;  and  then  he  fell  to 
meditating  upon  his  loneliness.  He  wondered 
how  life  would  have  seemed  if  his  mother  had 
not  hated  Mary  Ellen  Boyce,  and  the  one  dawn 
of  love  in  all  his  cramped  years  had  been  allowed 
to  brighten  into  day.  Yet,  curiously  enough, 
he  found  himself  regretting  his  mother's  stern 
ness  less  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

He  thought  of  his  talk  with  Miss  Jane  so  often 
that  week  that,  without  quite  knowing  why,  he 
found  himself,  at  the  close  of  the  Wednesday 
evening  lecture,  waiting  outside  the  church  door. 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  11 

Miss  Jane,  stopping  to  speak  to  old  friends,  was 
so  long  in  coming  out  that  when  she  reached  the 
steps  most  of  the  congregation  had  dispersed ; 
so  Tommy,  quite  naturally,  began  to  walk  beside 
her  as  he  said,  "Good-evening,"  and  hoped  that 
she  "found  herself  very  well." 

Miss  Jane  answered  with  a  gentle  cordiality 
which  the  apothecary  thought  beautiful,  but  she 
stopped,  and  glanced  back  at  the  church,  and 
then  looked  anxiously  up  the  moonlit  road,  which 
wound  like  a  white  ribbon  back  among  the  hills. 
"I  asked  Dick  to  meet  me,"  she  explained,  "but 
very  likely  he  has  forgotten  it.  He  is  such  a 
good  boy,  Dick  is,  but  sometimes  he  forgets." 
Miss  Jane's  love  was  not  of  the  fibre  which  de 
mands  the  best  in  its  beloved. 

"If,"  said  Mr.  Tommy  eagerly,  —  "if  you 
will  allow  me  to  walk  along  with  you,  ma'am  "  — 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  Mr.  Tommy,"  she  answered, 
quite  fluttered  and  hesitating.  "  The  lane  is  as 
quiet  as  can  be,  and  the  moon  has  made  it  as 
light  as  day." 

But  the  apothecary  urged  her  again  with  re 
spectful  anxiety.  "You  ought  not  to  be  alone, 
if  you  '11  allow  me  to  say  so,  Miss  Jane."  And 
so  he  went  to  the  very  door  of  Henry  Temple's 
house.  Miss  Jane  had  so  many  questions  to  ask 
about  Old  Chester,  and  he  had  so  much  to  tell 
her,  that  the  walk  was  a  pleasant  one  to  them 


12  ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

both;  and,  with  a  friendly  impulse,  as  she  said 
good-night  and  thanked  him  for  his  kindness, 
she  asked  him  if  he  would  not  come  in. 

It  was  with  a  strange  sensation  that,  standing 
in  the  shadows  at  the  foot  of  the  white  steps, 
Tommy  Dove  declined  what  he  had  never 
dreamed  would  be  offered  to  him.  But  he  did 
decline  it,  and  then  went  back  to  his  shop,  and, 
sitting  down  behind  the  counter,  leaned  his  head 
on  his  hands  and  thought  it  all  over.  He  hoped 
that  he  had  expressed  himself  well  in  talking 
to  Miss  Jane;  —  " elegantly  "  was  the  word  in 
Tommy's  mind.  He  felt  sure  that  his  conver 
sation  about  his  books  had  been  genteel,  but 
he  doubted  a  little  if  it  had  not  been  vulgar  to 
speak  of  such  things  as  the  snails  and  rose -bugs 
in  his  garden.  This  troubled  him,  and  he  was 
not  quite  happy  when  he  lighted  his  candle  and 
went  upstairs  to  his  bedroom  under  the  eaves. 

Miss  Jane  had  enjoyed  the  walk  home,  but 
she  was  a  little  relieved  that  Mr.  Tommy  had 
not  accepted  her  invitation.  "There  are  no 
lights  in  the  parlor,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and 
I  couldn't  have  taken  him  into  the  library." 

When  she  opened  the  library  door,  her  sweet 
face,  no  longer  young,  glowing  a  little  from  the 
cool  air,  and  her  eyes  dazzled  by  the  light, 
Henry  Temple  glanced  up  at  her  over  his  glasses 
long  enough  to  say,  "Well,  Janey?"  and  then 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  13 

settled  back  into  his  newspaper;  but  Dick 
sprang  up  from  his  seat  beside  his  mother's 
sofa  with  a  conscience-stricken  look. 

"Oh,  aunty,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  lout  I 
am  !  I  forgot  all  about  your  prayer-meeting  !" 

"Why,  Richard!  "  said  his  mother  in  dismay, 
and  Mr.  Temple  put  down  his  paper  to  say, 
"Were  you  to  go  for  your  aunt?  I  'm  ashamed 
of  you,  sir! " 

"Oh,  it  is  no  matter,  dear  brother,"  protested 
Miss  Jane,  her  face  shining  with  affection. 
"Never  mind,  Dick.  As  though  one  couldn't 
come  home  alone  in  Old  Chester !  —  though, 
really,  I  did  n't  come  home  alone.  Mr.  Dove 
walked  back  with  me." 

"Dove?"  said  Henry  Temple.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Tommy?  Yes.  Well,  that  was  very  nice  in 
the  little  man.  Did  n't  his  mother  die  last 
winter  ?  Dick,  you  cub,  have  you  apologized  to 
your  aunt?  Janey,  while  I  think  of  it,  just  see 
that  my  gun-case  is  mended,  will  you?  The 
baize  is  torn  at  one  end." 

"And,  aunty,"  Dick  said  penitently,  "if 
you  '11  forgive  me  this  time,  I  '11  go  with  you, 
as  well  as  for  you,  next  week.  It 's  this  beastly 
translation;  just  look  at  that  stuff!  — ' Findi- 
tur  nodus  cordis  ' 

Miss  Jane  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  leaned 
over  Dick's  shoulder.  Ever  since  the  days  in 


14  MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

which  she  taught  him  his  A  B  C's,  she  had  been 
impressed  by  her  nephew's  learning;  but  she 
did  not  comment  upon  it  now. 

"Yes,  she  died  in  January,"  she  said  slowly. 
"He  must  be  very  lonely." 

No  one  answered  her;  each  member  of  the 
family  had  his  or  her  occupations  and  interests, 
and  Miss  Jane's  pity  was  as  unnoticed  as  the 
fall  of  a  rose-leaf  outside  in  the  tranquil  night. 

The  library  was  such  a  pleasant  room,  though 
it  was  dim  with  cigar  smoke  that  evening,  that 
it  was  easy  to  shut  out  other  people's  affairs 
and  be  simply  comfortable.  The  window  on 
the  south  side  had  a  broad,  leather-cushioned 
seat,  where  Erne  Temple  was  curled  up  reading 
by  the  light  of  a  hanging  lamp.  The  windows 
were  open,  and  the  soft  June  air  and  the  climb 
ing  roses  came  in  together  from  the  moonlit 
night.  The  walls  were  lined  with  books,  and  in 
the  corners  were  racks  for  fishing-rods;  a  pair 
of  spurs  had  been  thrown  down  upon  a  table 
littered  with  papers  and  letters  and  bits  of 
unfinished  fancy-work.  A  liver-colored  pointer 
had  fallen  asleep  beside  Mrs.  Temple's  sofa, 
her  delicate  hand  resting  lovingly  on  his  sleek 
head,  and  a  collie  was  stretched  at  the  feet  of 
the  master  of  the  house. 

Miss  Jane  felt,    vaguely,    that  this   careless 
comfort  was  the  reason  of  the  indifference  to  the 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  15 

outside  world.  Mr.  Tommy's  sorrow  could  not 
touch  any  one  here,  and  for  that  reason,  per 
haps,  she  kept  it  in  her  own  heart;  and,  possj- 
bly  because  the  interests  of  her  life  were  not 
her  own  but  other  people's,  Miss  Jane's  heart 
had  room  for  Mr.  Tommy's  griefs. 

"Really,"  said  Mrs.  Temple  that  night  to 
her  husband,  after  she  had  eaten  the  bowl  of 
delicate  gruel  her  sister-in-law  had  brought  her, 
—  "really,  Janey  is  a  great  help;  you  have  no 
idea  how  much,  in  a  small  way,  she  relieves  me." 

"I've  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  responded  Henry 
Temple,  pausing  with  his  bootjack  in  one  plump 
white  hand.  "Janey  hasn't  any  mind,  particu 
larly,  but  she  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person  to 
depend  upon.  It 's  lucky  she  never  married." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Temple  doubtfully,  "it  is 
fortunate  for  us,  Henry  —  but  perhaps  —  don't 
you  think  that  for  Janey  it  is  not  so  pleasant?- 
I  am  almost  sorry  for  Janey.  Not  but  what 
she  is  contented,  —  in  your  household,  she  could 
not  be  anything  else,  —  but  a  woman  is  happier 
to  be  married,  my  dear." 

She  smiled  at  him  adoringly.  Possibly  her 
sister-in-law's  usefulness  had  contributed  to 
Euphemia  Temple's  view  of  the  happiness  of 
matrimony ;  it  had  certainly  protected  her  ideal 
of  her  husband,  and  kept  her  blind  to  certain 
facts  of  temper  and  selfishness,  which,  if  the 


16  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

housekeeping  machinery  had  not  run  smoothly, 
or  his  comfort  had  been  interfered  with,  she 
must  have  learned.  "No  unmarried  woman 
knows  what  happiness  is  !  "  she  declared.  Her 
husband  laughed,  —  Mr.  Temple's  laugh  was  so 
frequent  and  so  cordial  that  people  said  he  was 
the  most  good-natured  fellow  in  the  world. 

^"Nonsense,"  he  said,  "  Jane  's  happy  enough. 
What  could  she  want  better?  A  good  home,  a 
chance  to  travel  sometimes,  —  and  I  'm  sure  we 
are  all  fond  of  Janey.  No,  no,  she  's  happy 
enough.  Besides,  she  might  not  have  found  a 
good  husband." 

And  Mrs.  Temple  assented,  with  a  sigh  of 
thankfulness  for  her  own  blessings. 

III. 

Miss  Jane  thought  very  often  of  Mr.  Tom 
my's  sorrow.  She  saw  him  once  or  twice  in  the 
village  after  that  walk  home  from  prayer-meet 
ing,  and  she  met  him  again  in  the  west  pasture, 
where  she  had  gone  to  look  for  wild  strawberries 
for  her  sister-in-law,  a  task  which  could  not  be 
entrusted  to  the  dull  eyes  of  servants,  —  and 
Dick  was  too  busy,  and  Effie  did  not  like  the 
July  sun  even  as  late  as  five  o'clock. 

Miss  Jane  had  stopped  in  the  pasture  to  rest 
upon  a  ledge  of  rock,  which,  breaking  through 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  17 

the  hillside  grass  and  ferns,  was  grasped  by  the 
roots  of  a  walnut-tree,  wrinkled  like  fingers  of 
a  sinewy  hand.  She  liked  to  hear  the  rustle 
of  the  wind  in  the  sage -bush  at  her  side,  and 
the  shrill  cry  of  the  crickets.  She  took  off  her 
hat  and  smoothed  back  a  lock  of  her  pale  brown 
hair;  then  she  watched  a  wandering  butterfly 
light  upon  a  swinging  stalk  of  mullein,  and  open 
and  close  his  velvety  wings.  She  was  wonder 
ing,  her  eyes  fixed  absently  upon  the  butterfly, 
if  it  would  be  very  long  before  her  brother 
opened  the  old  house  again,  or  whether  she  could 
not  persuade  her  sister-in-law  to  persuade  him 
to  come  next  summer,  —  this  country  life  was 
very  dear  to  Jane  Temple,  —  so  she  did  not  hear 
Mr.  Tommy's  step,  and  his  voice  startled  her 
when  he  said  timidly,  "Good-evening,  ma'am." 
But  she  was  distinctly  glad  to  see  him.  He 
was  part  of  Old  Chester  to  Jane  Temple.  The 
apothecary's  arms  were  full  of  pennyroyal,  and 
as  he  talked  he  buried  his  face  in  it  once  or 
twice,  as  though  its  fragrance  delighted  him, 
though  really  it  was  only  to  hide  his  embar 
rassed  joy. 

"I  've  been  picking  pennyroyal,"  he  said,  as 
if  its  aromatic  perfume  needed  any  explana 
tion;  "it  grows  very  thickly  on  the  Common." 
Then,  a  little  awkwardly,  he  pulled  out  half  a 
dozen  sprays  from  his  bunch,  and  offered  them 
to  Miss  Jane.  "Some  like  it,"  he  observed. 


18  ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

"I  do,"  she  answered;  and  from  that  it  was 
easy  enough  to  fall  to  talking  of  his  garden,  and 
how  dear  Old  Chester  was  to  Miss  Jane,  and 
how  sorry  she  should  be  when  November  came, 
and  she  must  leave  it—  "And  it  may  be  very 
long  before  we  come  back  again,"  she  ended, 
with  a  sigh. 

They  were  both  so  interested  that  they  had 
not  noticed  how  the  shadows  had  lengthened, 
and  then  faded  into  the  gray,  warm  dusk;  but 
when  they  did,  Miss  Jane  rose  nervously. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "how  late  it  is  !  I 
must  make  haste." 

Tommy  stumbled  along  at  her  side  over  the 
uneven  ground,  trying  to  see  the  path  through 
his  great  bunch  of  pennyroyal.  "Miss  Jane," 
he  said,  a  little  breathless  as  he  tried  to  keep 
pace  with  her,  "if —  if  you  '11  let  me,  I  '11  bring 
you  a  bunch  of  those  gillyflowers  I  told  you 
about." 

"Why,  indeed,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have 
them,"  she  answered.  "You  are  so  kind.  But 
I  'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  trouble,  Mr.  Dove." 

These  little  talks  with  the  apothecary  had 
lent  him  a  new  dignity  in  Miss  Jane's  eves, 
and  she  no  longer  called  him  "Mr.  Tommy." 

"Why,"  he  protested,  "why,  it  will  be  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  the  world,  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  the  world  !  " 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  19 

He  walked  to  Henry  Temple's  gate  with  her, 
and  then  stood  peering  between  the  iron  bars  at 
her  small  figure  hurrying  along  the  driveway 
under  the  overhanging  trees. 

Miss  Jane  was  late,  and  she  came  breathlessly 
into  the  dining-room,  to  find  the  family  at  tea. 

"Well,  Janey,"  said  her  brother,  "we  began 
to  think  you  were  going  to  spend  the  night  in 
the  fields  !  " 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  answered,  with  anxious 
contrition.  "I  really  didn't  know  how  late  it 
was.  Have  you  tried  to  make  the  tea,  dear 
sister?  Do  let  me  take  your  place.  I  'm  sure 
you  are  tired,  and  —  I  'm  so  sorry  !  " 

"But  what  happened  to  you,  Janey?"  Mr. 
Temple  asked  good-naturedly;  he  had  finished 
his  curry,  and  could  afford  to  be  interested  in 
small  matters.  "I  suppose  you  have  brought 
home  a  bushel  of  strawberries?  " 

"No,  she  hasn't !  "  cried  Effie  shrilly,  from 
her  perch  on  Dick's  knee.  "She  hasn't  been 
picking  strawberries  all  this  time.  I  went  out 
to  meet  her,  so  I  did,  an'  I  got  to  the  pasture 
bars,  an'  then  I  did  n't  go  any  farther,  'cause 
I  saw  aunty  sitting  under  the  big  walnut  with 
Mr.  Tommy  Dove,  —an'  I  don't  like  that  Mr. 
Tommy  Dove." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Henry  Temple,  his  eyes 
full  of  amusement.  "Does  the  apothecary  go 
strawberrying,  too?" 


20  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

"Aunty,  I  '11  get  the  strawberries  for  you, 
next  time  !  "  said  Dick,  with  a  laugh. 

Miss  Jane  tried  to  make  herself  heard.      "I 
-I  was  just  going  to  say,  dear  brother  "  —  she 

began,  her  anxious  face  hot  with  blushes "I 

met  Mr.  Dove ;  he  came  across  the  pasture,  and 
I  was  resting  —  and  he  "  — 

"Yes,  yes,  we  understand,"  said  Mr.  Temple, 
pushing  his  chair  back.  "Euphemia,  I  think 
Jane  will  prefer  that  Effie  is  kept  at  home  in 
the  afternoons.  Effie,  confine  yourself  to  large 
facts,  my  child:  say  you  went  to  meet  your 
aunt,  but  spare  the  details.  Eh,  Jane?" 

His  jolly  laugh  drowned  her  answer,  and  he 
did  not  wait  for  her  to  repeat  it;  indeed,  the 
whole  matter  went  out  of  his  mind,  nor  did  it 
occur  to  him  again  until  a  week  later,  when 
Mrs.  Temple,  with  a  droll  look,  told  him  that 
Mr.  Tommy  had  brought  Miss  Jane  a  bunch 
of  gillyflowers,  and  had  stayed  talking  with  her 
upon  the  porch  for  nearly  an  hour. 

"Well,  now,  see  here,"  he  said,  as  he  flung 
his  head  back,  with  a  great  laugh.  "It  is  ab 
surd,  of  course,  but  really  Jane  must  be  careful. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  be  kind  and  neighborly,  — 
nobody  believes  in  that  sort  of  thing  more  than 
I  do;  only  it  must  not  be  turned  into  Love's 
Offering,  Euphemia!  "  He  was  even  careful  to 
drop  a  good-natured  sarcasm  concerning  Mr. 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  21 

Tommy  in  Miss  Jane's  presence,  and  had  a  mo 
ment  of  uncomfortable  surprise  at  seeing  his 
sister's  face  flush  a  little.  But,  after  all,  Jane 
was  a  woman  and  a  Temple,  and  was  but  prop 
erly  kind-hearted;  and  then,  beside,  the  little 
man  knew  his  place. 

To  take  the  small  bunch  of  flowers  to  Miss 
Jane  had  been  a  great  pleasure  to  Mr.  Tommy. 
He  thought  of  it  so  continuously  that  he  was 
strangely  absent-minded  when  he  mixed  his 
powders  and  potions,  thereby  causing,  no  little 
anxiety  to  some  nervous  customers.  He  began 
to  say  to  himself  that  Miss  Jane  had  received 
his  little  nosegay  with  such  kindness  that  he 
wished  he  had  something  better  to  give  her. 
After  meditating  for  several  days  upon  this  sub 
ject,  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  a  certain 
blue  chest  in  the  garret  which  held  women's 
gowns  and  some  small  fineries  of  his  mother's. 
Yet  it  was  not  until  he  had  once  more  walked 
home  from  prayer-meeting  with  her  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  open  it,  and  see  if  it  contained 
anything  worthy  of  Henry  Temple's  sister. 

The  Dove  house  was  full  of  the  slumberous 
silence  of  the  August  afternoon,  when  Tommy 
climbed  the  dusty  stairs  to  search  the  blue  chest. 
The  garret  under  the  roof  was  very  hot,  and 
there  was  a  scorched  smell  from  the  worm-eaten 
rafters  that  mingled  with  the  pungent  fragrance 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

of  herbs  which  were  drying  upon  the  floor.  A 
blue  fly  buzzed  fitfully  up  and  down  one  of  the 
small  panes  of  glass  in  the  window,  and  the  hot 
silence  was  accented  by  the  tick  of  the  death- 
watch  in  the  wall,  or  the  muffled  stir  of  bird  life 
under  the  eaves  outside.  Against  the  brick 
chimney,  which  was  rough  with  lines  of  mortar, 
were  spider 's-webs,  furry  with  the  dust  of  years; 
and  in  a  tarnished  brass  warming-pan  was  a 
family  of  mice,  that  started  at  Tommy's  step, 
the  mother  peering  at  him  with  bright,  anxious 
eyes,  and  then  running  across  the  floor  to  hide 
beneath  a  loosened  plank. 

Tommy  propped  the  window  open  with  a 
broken  sandal -wood  box,  which  held  nothing 
more  valuable  than  some  old  yellow  letters ;  the 
blue  fly  spread  his  wings  and  tumbled  out  into 
the  sunshine,  and  the  fresh  air  came  in,  in  a 
warm,  sweet  gust.  Then  he  lifted  the  lid  of 
the  chest  and  looked  in.  There  was  a  vague 
regret  for  himself  in  Tommy's  mind,  that  the 
contents  roused  no  sacred  sorrow;  indeed,  he 
was  much  more  conscious  of  what  a  refuge  the 
garret  had  been  to  him  in  his  boyhood,  when  he 
longed  to  escape  from  the  sharp,  scolding  voice 
to  which  he  never  dared  reply;  but  he  forgot 
this  as  he  lifted  out  two  gowns  and  examined 
them  critically.  One  was  of  shimmering  gray, 
with  small  bunches  of  purple  flowers  scattered 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  23 

over  it,  and  the  other  of  thin  changeable  silk. 
He  held  them  out  at  arm's-length  and  reflected. 
.  They  did  not  seem  quite  like  the  dresses  Miss 
Jane  wore,  but  he  could  not  tell  why.  Then  a 
thought  struck  him.  He  looked  towards  the 
door  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  though  he 
knew  that  in  the  empty  house  there  were  no 
other  curious  eyes  than  those  of  the  gray  mouse, 
he  stepped  back  across  the  nneven  floor,  and 
shut  and  bolted  the  door.  There  was  a  mirror 
in  one  corner,  hanging  high  upon  the  discolored 
wall;  its  worn  gilt  frame  flung  a  shadow  on  its 
powdery  surface,  but  Mr.  Tommy,  standing  on 
tiptoe,  and  holding  the  gray  dress  up  in  front 
of  him,  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  high  waist 
and  balloon  sleeves.  He  shook  his  head:  the 
dresses  would  not  do,  he  thought ;  they  did  not 
look  like  Miss  Jane.  He  laid  the  gowns  down 
upon  a  cowhide  trunk,  upon  the  cover  of  which 
"  Dove "  was  marked  in  brass  nailheads,  and 
began  his  search  again. 

There  was  not  much  to  hope  for  among  the 
bonnets  and  chintz  gowns  and  queer  mantillas, 
but  almost  at  the  bottom  of  the  chest  he  found 
a  square  package  folded  in  silvered  paper.  This 
he  opened  anxiously.  It  contained  a  pale  pea- 
green  crepe  shawl,  embroidered  along  the  edge, 
and  with  heavy  silk  fringe  laid  straight  and 
smooth.  Tommy  breathed  quick  with  pleasure. 


24  ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

He  could  not  have  explained  it,  but  this  seemed 
as  though  it  belonged  to  Miss  Jane.  He  re 
placed  the  other  things,  and  then  closed  the  lid 
of  the  chest  and  sat  down  upon  it. 

He  shook  the  shawl  out  of  its  folds  of  forty 
years,  and  held  it  up  to  dusk  and  gleam  in  the 
sunshine.  Yes,  it  was  certainly  beautiful,  and 
it  was  the  very  thing  for  Miss  Jane.  But  how 
should  he  give  it  to  her  ?  Was  it  best  to  wrap 
it  up  again  and  send  it  to  her ;  or  had  he  better 
throw  it  over  his  arm,  and  walk  up  the  hill,  and 
just  remark  —  incidentally  —  something  about 
shawls?  He  lifted  the  silvered  paper,  that  it 
might  help  him  to  decide,  but  it  fell  apart  along 
the  worn  creases.  After  all,  that  settled  it.  He 
would  carry  it  to  her  folded  across  his  arm ;  it 
would  make  too  much  of  it  to  present  her  with 
a  packet. 

Pie  shut  the  small  window,  but  stopped  to 
turn  the  pennyroyal  over,  before  he  left  the  old 
garret  to  its  hot  stillness. 

The  apothecary  was  not  in  a  position  to  know 
that  Henry  Temple  was  entertaining  some  gen 
tlemen  at  dinner  that  evening,  but  it  would  have 
spared  him  some  pain  could  he  have  guessed  it. 
As  it  was,  he  was  impatient  for  the  tall  clock  in 
the  shop  to  strike  eight,  that,  with  the  shawl 
upon  his  arm,  he  might  walk  up  the  shadowy 
lane  to  the  white  house  on  the  hill. 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  25 

As  Mrs.  Temple  was  too  great  an  invalid  to 
be  present  on  such  occasions,  Miss  Jane  took 
the  head  of  her  brother's  table.  She  was  so 
silent  and  timid  a  hostess  that  by  degrees  Henry 
Temple's  friends  had  ceased  to  feel  that  polite 
ness  made  it  necessary  to  try  to  include  her  in 
their  conversation.  Miss  Jane  had  no  small 
feminine  opinions  upon  social  or  political  prob 
lems  ;  she  was  filled  with  mild  astonishment  to 
learn  that  their  talk  of  tier  Aberglaube  was  a 
religious  discussion,  and  she  saw  no  connection 
between  " Reform"  and  politics.  Indeed,  she 
rarely  knew  what  they  were  talking  about,  and 
it  was  always  a  relief  to  her  when  she  was 
allowed  to  leave  them  to  their  cigars  and  wine, 
and  retire  to  the  parlor.  There,  on  this  still 
August  evening  while  Tommy  was  hastening 
up  the  hill,  she  was  sitting,  patiently  waiting  to 
give  them  their  coffee.  There  was  a  bowl  of 
roses  on  the  table  beside  her,  and  she  was  try 
ing,  by  the  light  of  two  candles  in  the  twisted 
arms  of  a  tall  candelabrum,  to  read  one  of  her 
brother's  learned  books.  Miss  Jane  was  con 
stantly  "improving  her  mind."  As  Tommy 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  through  one  of  the  open 
French  windows,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there 
was  a  halo  round  her  bending  head,  such  as  he 
had  seen  about  the  gracious  faces  of  pictured 
saints. 


26  ME.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

It  was  unfortunate  that,  at  that  moment, 
Henry  Temple  and  his  guests  should  have  been 
coming  through  the  hall  from  the  dining-room. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  see  Tommy's  shrink 
ing  figure  in  the  doorway,  his  small  face  quiver 
ing  with  embarrassment,  and  the  green  shawl 
upon  his  arm  making  a  spot  of  white  under  the 
porch  lamp. 

"What  does  this  person  want,  Jane?"  her 
brother  said,  in  a  low,  annoyed  tone. 

"I  —  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,  brother," 
she  answered,  frightened,  yet  with  the  loyalty 
of  a  gentle  heart.  "I  think  Mr.  Dove  has  come 
to  see  —  me ;  so  will  you  please  let  John  pour 
out  the  coffee?" 

Henry  Temple  frowned.  "Very  well,"  he 
said  briefly;  and  then  he  joined  again  in  the 
drawing-room  conversation  of  the  men,  explain 
ing  with  good-natured  carelessness  that  they 
must  take  their  coffee  by  themselves. 

The  apothecary  followed  Miss  Jane  to  the 
library,  but  he  would  not  sit  down;  he  stood 
first  on  one  foot,  and  then  on  the  other,  ner 
vously  rolling  the  shawl  into  a  muff  to  hide  his 
hands.  "I'll  go  right  home  again,  ma'am," 
he  said.  "I  won't  interrupt  you  —  I  won't 
stay." 

"Oh,  please  don't  go,  Mr.  Dove,"  Miss  Jane 
remonstrated  tremulously.  "My  brother  is - 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  27 

is  occupied,  but  I  '11  be  glad  if  you  will  stay 
and  talk  to  me." 

So  Tommy  stayed  a  little  while.  Once,  when 
Henry  Temple  came  in  to  find  some  book,  he 
rose,  and  said,  "Good-evening,  sir,"  with  re 
spectful  timidity.  Mr.  Temple's  good  nature 
was  restored  by  that  time,  and  he  answered, 
"Oh,  how  are  you,  Tommy?"  in  a  way  which 
warmed  the  apothecary's  heart.  He  did  not 
stay  long  after  that ;  but  when  he  rose  to  go,  it 
took  some  little  time  to  find  suitable  language 
in  which  to  present  his  gift  to  Miss  Jane.  He 
stumbled  over  his  words  as  he  tried  to  tell  her 
that  he  hoped  she  would  accept  it.  "If  you 
will  please  to  take  it,"  he  ended,  holding  the 
shawl  out  to  her  entreatingly. 

Miss  Jane  was  as  confused  as  he.  "Indeed, 
Mr.  Dove"  —  she  protested. 

"It  was  my  —  my  dear  mother's,"  he  said 
imploringly.  "I  'd  like  to  think  you  were 
wearing  it.  There  never  was  anybody  else  I 
could  have  given  it  to,  —  except  Mary  Ellen 
Boyce,  and  mother  didn't  like  her,  — and  if  — 
if  you  would  just  be  willing  " 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Jane,  the  tears  coming  into 
her  eyes  with  embarrassed  pleasure,  "I  hardly 
know  how  to  refuse,  you  are  so  kind,  and  it  is 
so  beautiful ;  only  I  —  I  ought  not  to  accept  it, 
you  know." 


28  MB.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

"Oh,  please  do,  ma'am!"  burst  out  Tommy. 

And  Miss  Jane  could  only  take  it,  touching 
it  with  her  white  fingers  in  womanly  enjoyment 
of  its  exquisite  texture.  "  Why,  it 's  as  fine  as 
a  cobweb,"  she  said.  "You  are  too  kind,  Mr. 
Dove." 

Tommy  went  home  thrilled  with  happiness. 
Miss  Jane  thought  him  "kind;  "  she  had  taken 
his  little  present,  and  said  it  was  "beautiful"  ! 
The  very  existence  of  Mary  Ellen  Boyce  faded 
out  of  his  mind;  his  heart  beat  high  with  pride; 
he  said  to  himself  that  he  really  did  not  know 
what  he  should  do  when  Miss  Jane  went  away 
from  Old  Chester. 

Perhaps  that  was  the  moment  when  a  vague, 
undefined  thought  first  came  into  the  apothe 
cary's  mind.  Perhaps  she  need  not  go  away? 
Tommy  was  actually  frightened  at  himself. 
"Why,  "he  said  aloud,  "if  Miss  Jane  knew  I 
had  thought  of  such  a  thing,  she  would  be  very 
angry  with  me." 

Then  the  image  of  Henry  Temple  presented 
itself,  and  Tommy  shivered.  Nevertheless, 
with  a  sort  of  awful  pleasure,  he  said  again, 
"Perhaps  she  need  not  go  away  !  " 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  29 

IV. 

That  was  the  first  of  half  a  dozen  calls.     Miss 
Jane  began  not  only  to  enjoy  them,  but  to  look 
forward  to  them.     It  was  impossible  not  to  be 
touched  by  the  subtle  flattery  of  Tommy's  tim 
idity,  and,  following  that,  his  honest  belief  in 
her   judgment  which  dared  to  be  admiration; 
but  yet  more  flattering  was  the  simplicity  with 
which  he  showed  his  happiness  if  he  could  but 
be  near  her.     It  brought  a  new  pleasure  into 
Miss  Jane's  life ;  a  pleasure  which  was,  perhaps, 
greater  because  her  brother  had  been  called  away 
from  home  for  a  few  weeks,  and  she  did  not  fear 
his  sarcasms.    The  amused  and  annoyed  looks  of 
Mrs.  Temple  and  Dick  hurt  her  only  when  she 
saw  them ;  she  began  to  feel  a  certain  bravery 
for  her  own  life  which  she  had  never  known  be 
fore.     Dearly  as  she  loved  these  dear  people, 
and  absorbed  as  she  was  in  their  interests,  she 
began  to  see  that  it  was  possible  that  she  might 
have  an  interest  which  should  be  all  her  own, 
and  to  realize  that  there  was  room  in  the  life 
which  they  had  seemed  to  fill  for  an  affection 
which  did  not  need  their  sanction.      She  was 
conscious  of  a  feeling  of  proprietorship ;  a  new 
and  trembling  dignity  crept  into  her  manner. 
To  be  sure,  it  could  be  overthrown  by  a  word. 
Effie's  remark  that  the  green  crepe  shawl,  which, 


30  MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

one  evening,  she  boldly  threw  across  her  shoul 
ders,  was  "a  hideous  old  thing,"  made  her  quick 
to  put  it  away;  but  there  were  some  rose-gera 
nium  leaves  from  one  of  Tommy's  nosegays  be 
tween  its  soft  folds.  The  alteration  in  her  man 
ner  was  so  slight,  however,  that  Henry  Temple, 
at  least,  would  never  have  noticed  it,  or  been 
particularly  concerned  that  the  apothecary  should 
call,  had  not  Tommy's  first  visit  after  his  return 
fallen  upon  an  evening  when  her  brother  needed 
Miss  Jane's  services. 

"Really,  Euphemia,"  he  said,  on  finding  that 
Jane  had  been  summoned  to  the  parlor  to  see 
Mr.  Dove,  "isn't  this  thing  getting  to  be  some 
thing  more  serious  than  a  bore?" 

Mr.  Temple  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  one  elbow  on  the  mantelshelf  behind 
him,  and  a  cigar  between  his  fingers.  His 
handsome  face  showed  decided  annoyance.  "I 
wanted  Jane  to  copy  some  manuscript  for  me, 
and  here  comes  this  confounded  apothecary  to 
delay  me.  What  business  has  the  fellow  to  be 
here,  anyhow?  What  is  Jane  thinking  of  to 
allow  it?" 

As  Mr.  Temple  reflected  upon  his  inconven 
ience,  his  irritation  increased. 

"It  's  clear  enough  what  Tommy's  thinking 
of,"  said  Dick,  who  was  lounging  about  the  room, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets:  "he's  in  love 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  31 

with  aunty.  The  romance  of  the  apothecary  is 
a  perfect  nuisance  in  this  household.  I  wanted 
her  to  mend  my  cap  for  me  to-night.  Effie,  you 
humbug,  why  don't  you  learn  to  sew  and  mend 
your  brother's  things?" 

"  'Cause,"  Effie  replied  concisely;  and  then 
she  added,  "I  met  him  in  the  village  yester 
day,  that  Mr.  Tommy  Dove,  an'  he  asked  me  if 
aunty  was  going  to  be  at  home  last  night,  an' 
I  told  him  no,  she  wasn't." 

"But,  Effie,  dear,"  protested  her  mother  from 
the  sofa,  "she  was  at  home." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Effie  calmly,  "but  I  didn't 
want  him  round.  I  wanted  her  to  play  back 
gammon  with  me,  so  I  didn't  want  him  round." 

Mrs.  Temple's  troubled  remonstrance  was 
drowned  in  her  husband's  rollicking  laugh. 

"Well  done,  Ef !  "  he  said;  "but  the  ecclesi 
astical  game  should  teach  you  a  regard  for  truth 
—  though,  on  the  whole,  no ;  it  would  have  the 
opposite  effect,  of  course.  Don't  play  it,  child, 
its  influence  upon  your  morals  is  so  evident. 
But,  seriously,  Euphemia  —  Go  to  bed,  Effie, 
and  remember,  I  will  not  allow  untruthfulness ;  " 
and  when  she  had  gone  pouting  upstairs,  for  a 
punishment  which  it  chanced  to  be  convenient 
to  her  father  to  administer, — for  the  child's 
presence  was  a  restraint  in  a  conversation  of  this 
nature,  — he  finished  his  sentence :  "I  don't  like 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

this  at  all.     Has  this  person  been  coming  here 
to  see  Jane?" 

"Yes,  he  has,"  said  Dick,  who  was  sitting 
on  the  arm  of  his  mother's  sofa,  and  examining 
the  loop  of  his  hunting-crop  critically.  "It's 
perfectly  ridiculous.  Something  ought  to  be 
done." 

"Oh,  Richard,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  in  her 
weak  voice,  "don't  say  such  a  thing  to  your 
father.  It  is  nothing,  my  dear;  he  has  called 
occasionally,  but  I  've  no  doubt  it  has  only  been 
about  —  about  my  medicine." 

"Nonsense,"  said  her  husband  briefly,  with 
an  annoyed  glance  at  the  clock.  "I  won't  get 
that  manuscript  off  in  the  morning.  Dick,  just 
tell  me  how  long  this  thing  has  been  going  on, 
will  you?  " 

"Well,"  Dick  answered,  "he  has  been  com 
ing  once  a  week,  certainly.  In  fact,  I  think 
this  is  the  second  time  this  week.  Mother, 
darling,  you  must  take  a  good  deal  of  medi 
cine?" 

"But  there  's  no  harm,  Henry,"  Mrs.  Temple 
said  anxiously.  "  Sometimes  I  think  we  are  al 
most  selfish  about  Janey.  AVe  expect  her  to  be 
satisfied  to  have  only  our  pleasures,  not  her  own." 

"Now,  Euphemia,"  Mr.  Temple  answered, 
gesticulating  with  his  half -smoked  cigar,  "you 
really  must  not  be  absurd,  you  know.  I  'm  per- 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  33 

f ectly  willing  for  Jane  to  have  her  own  pleasures 
when  they  are  reasonable  and  proper.  But  I 
don't  propose  to  receive  the  apothecary  at  my 
house  to  divert  Jane  Temple,  —  granted  it  is 
only  diversion,  and  nothing  more  serious.  But 
I  'm  inclined  to  think  it  is  more  serious.  Do 
you  want  Tommy  for  a  brother-in-law,  my 

dear?" 

"If  Janey  were  fond  of  him  "  -  Mrs.  Temple 
began,  trembling. 

"Euphemia,"  interrupted  her  husband,  "you 
have  heard  me  remark,  I  think,  that  I  hate  a 
fool;  now  try  and  understand,  please,  that  I  am 
only  anxious  for  Jane's  best  happiness.  There  's 
nobody  more  anxious  for  her  happiness  than  I 
am.  But  do  you  suppose  she  could  be  happy 
with  such  a  person  as  this  Tommy  Dove? 
Pshaw  !  It  is  n't  to  be  considered  seriously, 
—  it  is  preposterous !  " 

He  flung  his  cigar  down  on  the  smouldering 
logs  with  an  angry  exclamation. 

"Your  father  will  have  his  joke,"  Mrs.  Tem 
ple  said,  looking  at  her  son  with  wistful  apol 
ogy  for  her  husband.  "Of  course,  dear,  I  know 
you  only  do  what  is  best  for  us  all.  No  doubt 
it  would  be  a  great  mistake  for  Janey ;  I  only 
thought "  - 

"Don't  think!"  interrupted  Henry  Temple 
with  a  laugh;  "it  is  one  of  the  greatest  mis- 


34  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

takes.  Never  think;  and  don't  argue  about 
things,  my  dear, —just  accept  them.  That  is 
what  I  am  going  to  do  now,  and  end  this  folly." 
"And  what  aunty  will  do,"  Dick  said, — 
"she  '11  accept  the  apothecary." 

I  think  not,"  returned  his  father  grimly. 
All  this  time,  Mr.  Tommy,  unusually  ner 
vous,  but  very  happy,  was  sitting  in  the  chilly 
parlor  with  Miss  Jane.  'He  had  come  to  Henry 
Temple's  house  that  night  with  a  purpose.  He 
knew  that  Miss  Jane  would  very  soon  go  away 
from  Old  Chester,  perhaps  not  to  return  for 
years ;  and  unless  he  could  persuade  her  to  stay, 
who  could  tell  whether  he  might  ever  see  her 
again?  And  though  he  trembled  at  his  own 
presumption,  he  meant  to  try  to  persuade  her. 
lie  had  dreamed  of  this  moment  for  weeks; 
every  word  to  her  had  been  uttered  with  the 
distinct  intention  of  encouraging  himself;  every 
look  had  betrayed  his  thought. 

Mr.  Tommy  had  felt  vaguely  that  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  place  was  against  him.  Yet  Effie 
was  the  embodiment  of  its  antagonism,  he 
thought,  rather  than  the  master  of  the  house, 
and  so  of  late  he  had,  in  many  humble  little 
ways,  tried  to  propitiate  the  child.  He  had 
gathered  small  nosegays,  and,  tying  a  bit  of 
bright  ribbon  about  them  with  awkward  fingers, 
had  offered  them  to  Miss  Jane,  with  the  request 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  35 

that  she  would  give  them  to  "the  little  girl." 
He  never  knew  that,  though  she  thanked  him, 
and  told  him  he  "was  so  kind  to  remember 
Effie,"  the  flowers  went  no  further  than  Miss 
Jane's  own  dressing-table.  Nor  did  a  game, 
which  he  had  purchased  in  the  village,  fare  any 
better ;  nor  a  picture  of  a  girl  and  a  dog.  But 
as  Mr.  Tommy  never  guessed  the  gentle  fate  of 
his  gifts,  he  was  not  discouraged,  and  so  con 
tinued  to  offer  them,  with  unabated  hope  that 
the  contemptuous  Effie  would  soon  dislike  him 
less. 

On  this  sharp  October  night,  he  brought  in 
the  pocket  of  his  black  coat  six  little  red-cheeked 
apples.  He  had  polished  them  stealthily  upon 
his  sleeve  as  he  climbed  the  hill,  and  when  he 
laid  them  in  a  row  upon  the  table,  in  front  of 
Miss  Jane,  they  actually  shone  in  the  lamplight. 
"They  are  paradise  apples/'  he  said,  "and  I 
brought  them  for  the  little  girl.  I  thought  may 
be  she  would  like  them." 

Miss  Jane  was  very  nervous  that  evening; 
perhaps  she  had  guessed  the  intention  of  the 
apothecary's  call;  at  all  events,  her  mild  face 
was  full  of  anxious  indecision,  though  she  was 
strangely  happy. 

"Indeed,  you  are  too  good,  Mr.  Dove,"  she 
said;  she  had  hurried  upstairs  for  the  green 
shawl,  when  he  had  been  announced,  and  she 


MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

drew  it  now  a  little  closer  about  her  shoulders; 
"Those  paradise  apples  are  so  pretty." 

"They  are  rather  sour,"  Tommy  answered 
doubtfully,  "but  they  seemed  pretty,  and  I 
thought  the  little  girl  might  like  to  play  with 
them." 

"We  had  one  of  those  trees  in  the  lower  gar 
den,  when  I  was  a  child,"  said  Miss  Jane,  "but 
it  is  dead  now;  the  garden  has  run  wild  in  all 
these  years  we  have  been  away.  I  wish  brother 
could  live  here,  and  it  could  be  taken  care  of, 
and  look  as  it  used  to." 

"Do  you?"  Tommy  said  slowly.  He  was 
not  particularly  anxious  that  Mr.  Henry  Tem 
ple  should  remain  in  Old  Chester. 

"Yes,"  she  responded;  "but  I  suppose  it 
would  be  too  lonely  in  the  winter." 

The  apothecary  hastened  to  agree  with  her  in 
this,  and  to  tell  her  how  desolate  the  great  house 
looked  in  winter,  when  the  snow  drifted  across 
the  porch,  or  lay  unbroken  on  the  window  ledges 
and  the  thresholds.  "The  house  is  so  high  on 
the  hill,  ma'am,"  he  explained,  "that  the  wind 
just  sweeps  it  all  the  time.  But  it  's  pleasanter 
in  the  valley,  Miss  Jane." 

Then  they  talked  of  Old  Chester  as  it  was 
long  ago,  and  Miss  Jane  reminded  him  of  the 
coast  on  the  Common.  "The  gypsies  used  to 
camp  there  in  the  summer,  —  do  you  remem- 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  37 

?  —  but  in  the  winter  we  children  used  to  go 
sledding.  I  had  a  blue  sled,  and  Billy  Spear 

he  was  our  coachman  —  used  to  pull  it  up 

the  hill  for  me." 

Mr.  Tommy  listened  ecstatically,  the  palms 
of  his  lean  hands  squeezed  together  between  his 
knees.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said;  "oh,  dear  me, 
yes,  indeed,  it  was  pleasant !  If  you  were 
going  to  be  here  in  the  winter  again,  ma'am, 
I_I  could  pull  the  blue  sled  up  the  hill  for 
you,  Miss  Jane." 

"Oh,"  replied  Miss  Jane  sadly,  without  the 
slightest  consciousness  of  humor,  "it 's  broken 
now;  the  children  broke  it.  And  your  rheu 
matism,  Mr.  Dove?" 

"But  I  wouldn't  mind  that,"  cried  Tommy, 
—  "oh,  my,  no  !  Oh,  Miss  Jane,  if  you  —  only 
could  —  stay  !  " 

"But  I  couldn't,  you  know,  Mr.  Dove,"  she 
answered,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  her 
faded  cheek,  and  her  voice  unsteady.  "I 
couldn't  let  brother's  family  go  back  without 
me,  and  I  could  not  be  here  alone,  of  course. 
But  I  shall  miss  — Old  Chester." 

She  seemed  to  crouch  further  back  into  her 
chair,  but  Tommy  sat  quite  upon  the  edge  of 
his.  Their  two  hearts  beat  so  quickly  that  they 
were  both  a  little  breathless  as  they  spoke. 

"But,"  said  Mr.   Tommy,  huskily,   rubbing 


Mlt.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

his  hands  together  and  edging  yet  farther  for 
ward,  "if  I  —  I  mean  if  you  —  if  we  —  if  it 
could  be  arranged ;  —  if  —  if  -  Oh,  don't  you 
understand,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Oh,   no,  indeed,   I  don't,"   said  Miss  Jane 
faintly;  "not  at  all,  I  'm  sure.     And  it  could  n't 
-could  it?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness,  Miss  Jane, "said  Tommy, 
almost  crying,  "I'll  — I'll  do  anything  — if 
you  —  if  you  just  will " 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Henry  Temple 
walked  leisurely  into  the  room. 

"Ah,  —  Jane,"  he  said,  looking  with  calm 
directness  at  Tommy,  yet  without  the  slightest 
sign  that  he  saw  him,  though  the  apothecary  had 
risen  and  bowed,  and  bowed  again.  "There  is 
some  manuscript  on  my  table  which  I  wish  you 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  copy  for  me." 

"Yes,  brother,"  she  said,  white  and  trem 
bling,  "  I  will.  But  —  Mr.  Dove  —  you  did  n't 
see  that  Mr.  Dove  is  here." 

"Oh,"  returned  Mr.  Temple,  gazing  quite 
blankly  at  Tommy's  quivering  little  face,  while 
he  fumbled  for  his  glasses.  He  adjusted  them, 
and  his  dark  eyebrows  gathered  in  a  fleeting 
frown.  "Ah,  Tommy?  Good-evening,  Tommy. 
You  will  excuse  Miss  Temple,  I  am  sure.  Jane, 
be  good  enough  to  attend  to  that,  if  you  please." 
He  stood  holding  the  door  open  and  looking 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  39 

down  at  Tommy  with  a  high,  calm  glance  which 
burned  into  the  apothecary's  soul. 

"Brother!"  Jane  cried,  her  voice  unsteady 
with  anger.  Yet  she  did  not  finish  her  sen 
tence.  Mr.  Tommy  interrupted  her. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  — "oh,  dear  me  —  why, 
certainly  —  yes.  I  'm  just  going,  just  going  !  " 
He  seemed  to  shrink  and  grow  smaller,  as  he 
slipped  sideways  past  Henry  Temple  and  sought 
blindly  for  his  hat  in  the  hall.  "Yes,  yes,"  he 
repeated.  "Good-night,  sir,  good-night."  He 
did  not  even  look  at  Miss  Jane,  but  opened  the 
front  door,  and,  stumbling  with  haste,  without 
stopping  for  his  lantern  which  he  had  left  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  he  found  his  way  under  the 
heavy  shadows  of  the  trees  to  the  gate. 

The  sharp,  cold  wind  seemed  to  brush  the 
mist  of  his  preposterous  dream  aside.  He  closed 
the  iron  gate  with  a  clang  behind  him,  and  ran 
with  all  his  might  down  the  stony  lane,  his  little 
legs  shaking  under  him,  and  his  eyes  stinging 
with  tears. 

"Oh,—  my!"  he  said  to  himself.  There 
was  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  he  almost  sobbed 
aloud. 

That  next  hour  in  Jane  Temple's  unselfish 
life  left  its  lasting  imprint  on  her  gentle  face. 
She  had  followed  her  brother  into  the  library, 
and,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  with  fright- 


40  Ml*.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

ened  eyes,  listened  to  Henry  Temple's  announce 
ment  that  lie  meant  to  put  a  stop  to  this 
folly. 

"You  don't  understand  these  things,  Jane," 
he  said,  "and  it 's  my  duty  to  protect  you  from 
the  consequences  of  your  ignorance.  I  'm  al 
ways  kind  to  the  poor  people  about  here,  —  I 
make  a  point  of  it;  they  are  well  meaning  and 
inoffensive,  —  but  kindness  from  a  woman  in 
your  position  to  such  a  person  as  this  apothe 
cary  will  be  misunderstood.  lie  will  begin  to 
imagine  he  is  in  love  with  you." 

"He's  making  a  fool  of  himself,"  Dick 
broke  in.  "Somebody  ought  to  do  something 
about  it.  He  's  trespassing  upon  your  good 
nature,  aunty." 

"Dick,"  said  Miss  Jane,  holding  her  head 
high,  "I  will  listen  to  anything  your  father 
says,  because  he  is  my  brother,  and  he  has  a 
right  to  speak,  but  I  will  not  hear  you  say  such 
things.  Mr.  Dove  is  —  my  friend.  I  will  not 
listen  to  you." 

There  was  a  moment  of  astonished  silence; 
then,  at  a  look  from  his  father,  Dick  muttered 
an  apology.  But  Henry  Temple,  with  a  calm 
indifference  which  might  almost  have  been  mis 
taken  for  kindness,  added  one  or  two  keen, 
stern  words,  and  then  turned  to  leave  the  room. 
He  had  forgotten  the  haste  about  his  manu- 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  41 

script,  and,  as  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  have  the  discomfort  of  seeing  his  sister's 
pain,  he  preferred  to  go  away. 

But  he  stopped  in  the  doorway,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  looked  back  at  Miss  Jane.  "  I 
have  no  fear  that  you  will  forget  yourself,  Jane," 
he  said.  "Do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  I 
distrust  you,  — or  your  taste.  It  is  mere  con 
sideration  for  poor  little  Tommy  that  makes  me 
speak." 

When  he  had  gone,  and  Dick,  with  an  odd 
sensation  of  shame,  had  followed  him,  Mrs. 
Temple  covered  her  face  with  her  thin  hands 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Janey,  you  wouldn't  leave  us?  You 
couldn't!  I  —  I  'm  no  use,  and  Henry  depends 
so  on  you  he  would  n't  have  any  comfort  with 
out  you,  and  —  oh,  we  couldn't  get  along  with 
out  you.  Of  course  "  —  sobbing  —  "Henry 
speaks  only  for  your  best  happiness.  He  said 
so.  For  you  would  n't  be  happy  here  with  Mr. 
-Mr.  Dove;  and  that's  Henry's  first  consid 
eration,  of  course." 

Jane  Temple's  anger  melted  under  those  tears. 
The  old  love  asserted  itself  in  her  faithful  heart. 
"They  need  me,"  she  thought  tenderly.  But 
though  she  comforted  her  sister-in-law  with  gen 
tle  words,  the  pain  remained,  and  kept  the  tears 
stinging  in  her  eyes,  and  stirred  her  into  a  piti- 


42  MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

fill  passion  of  belief  that  her  own  life  "had  a 
claim."     But  when  at  last,  hurt  and  exhausted 
and  full  of  uncertainty,  she  locked  herself  into 
her  own  room,  she  was  vaguely  happy.      Her 
eyes  filled  with  gentler  tears,  and  her  lips  smiled ; 
and  when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her  prayers, 
and  prayed  that  she  might  be  submissive  and 
patient,  she  buried  her  tear-stained  face  in  the 
green  shawl,  and  thanked  God  that  Mr.  Dove 
loved  her  !      All  that  night  she  tried  to  see  her 
duty,  to  conquer  her  selfishness.      But  she  could 
not  help  remembering  that  she  must  be  just  to 
the  apothecary,  and  that  she  had  some  right  to 
her  own  life;   and  then  the  habit  of  unselfish 
ness  brought  the  first  petition  to  her  lips  again : 
"help  me  to  do  my  duty!"      She  longed   for 
day  to  come  that  she  might  hear  the  rest  of  Mr. 
Tommy's  sentence,  and  comfort  her  heart  with 
his  honest  love.      "But  I  must  tell  him  it  can 
never  be,"  she  made  herself  say. 

V. 

Not  since  that  solemn  day  when  Mrs.  Dove 
had  been  carried  over  the  threshold  of  the  un 
used  front  door  had  Tommy  crossed  it ;  but  some 
instinct  which  he  could  not  have  defined  made 
the  apothecary,  breathless  with  his  run  down 
the  hill,  brush  the  cobwebs  away  from  the  key- 


MR.    TOMMY  DOVE.  43 

hole,  and  fumble  over  his  bunch  of  keys,  that 
he  might  enter  now. 

He  struck  a  match  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall, 
and,  curving  his  lean  hand  about  it,  mounted 
the  stairs  to  the  parlor  above  the  shop.  On  the 
mantelpiece,  in  the  head  of  a  dusty  china  shep 
herdess,  was  a  candle,  bent  sideways  by  the 
summer's  heats.  This  he  lighted  and  put  upon 
the  centre-table. 

The  parlor  had  the  musty  smell  of  a  long- 
closed  room,  and  as  he  touched  the  table  he  felt 
the  grit  of  dust.  He  sat  down  upon  the  slippery 
horsehair  sofa,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
The  candle  flickered  a  little  in  the  current  of  air 
from  the  open  door,  and  cast  upon  the  wall  a 
grotesque  shadow  of  his  bending  head ;  a  drop  of 
wax  fell  with  a  white  splash  upon  the  rosewood 
table.  Tommy  raised  his  head,  and  looked  about 
the  dreary  room.  He  did  not  spare  himself  one 
detail  of  its  ugliness. 

The  furniture  was  stiff  and  clumsy.  There 
were  engravings  upon  the  walls  of  celebrated 
persons  in  their  libraries,  and  a  print  of  Henry 
Clay's  deathbed,  suitably  framed  in  a  wiry 
imitation  of  crape.  A  yellowing  cast  of  little 
Samuel  knelt  in  one  corner,  and  some  faded 
family  photographs  of  not  attractive  people 
hung  in  a  row  high  above  the  black  mantel,  on 
which  was  a  large  conch  shell,  whose  curving 


44  ME.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

red  lip  held  a  bunch  of  dried  grass  and  certain 
silky  white  seed-pods.  There  was  a  silent  clock 
upon  the  mantel,  too,  with  a  bell-glass  over  it, 
and  a  bunch  of  wax  flowers  in  a  blue  vase ;  and 
on  a  fuzzy  green  mat  upon  a  side  table  were  the 
family  Bible  and  the  large  parlor  lamp  with  its 
knitted  shade. 

Mr.  Tommy's  haggard  eyes  traveled  slowly 
from  point  to  point.  How  had  he  dared  to 
dream  that  he  might  ask  Henry  Temple's  sister 
to  come  to  such  a  home !  But  oh,  how,  in  this 
last  month,  his  life  had  been  brightened  by  the 
mere  thought  of  such  a  thing !  Tommy  squeezed 
his  hands  together  and  groaned ;  but  it  was  be 
cause  of  his  intolerable  humiliation  rather  than 
his  despair,  for  now  Miss  Jane  seemed  such 
worlds  away  from  him  that  he  did  not  realize  he 
had  ever  hoped.  His  whole  lean  body  tingled 
with  mortification.  He  pressed  his  fingers  hard 
upon  his  eyes,  and  his  breath  came  fast. 

The  candle  burned  down  to  the  head  of  the 
china  shepherdess,  guttered,  smoked,  and,  wa 
vering  into  a  sickly  blue  flame,  went  out.  The 
darkness  of  the  long-closed  room  seemed  palpa 
ble  as  it  closed  about  him;  but  before  his  eyes 
was  still  the  glimmer  of  the  lamps  in  Mr.  Tem 
ple's  drawing-room,  and  the  silence  of  the  empty 
house  was  jarred  by  that  insolently  courteous 
voice. 


ME.   TOMMY  DOVE.  45 

By  and  by  there  was  a  faint  lightening  of  the 
heavy  darkness;  through  the  round  hole  in  the 
closed  wooden  shutter  came  the  gray  gleam  of 
dawn.  It  touched  the  motionless  figure  on  the 
old  sofa,  and  little  by  little  the  furniture  began 
to  take  vague  shapes  in  the  shadows.  Tommy 
lifted  his  head,  and  watched  the  daylight  creep 
stealthily  about. 

At  last  he  rose,  slowly  and  stiffly,  and  went  to 
the  window  and  tried  to  push  the  shutter  back. 
The  ivy  held  it  outside,  and  the  hinges  were 
rusty,  but  it  yielded  a  little,  and  then  opened 
half  way.  A  white  mist  shut  out  the  hills, 
and  a  stone 's-throw  from  the  gate  the  road 
was  swallowed  up  in  it. 

The  cold  air  struck  his  face  like  a  rebuff  from 
the  great  world  outside ;  he  shivered  as  he  closed 
and  bolted  the  shutter.  He  looked  to  see  that 
he  had  left  no  matches  about,  and  that  there  was 
no  spark  smouldering  in  the  china  shepherdess ; 
then  he  crept  silently  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Tommy  Dove  had  made  up  his  mind. 

First  he  wrote  a  line  to  Mrs.  McDonald,  and 
pinned  it  to  the  white  curtain  in  the  kitchen 
window;  then  he  went  upstairs  to  the  garret. 
There  was  a  traveling-bag  there,  he  thought. 
He  groped  in  the  dark  corner  under  the  mirror 
until  he  laid  his  hand  upon  it.  As  he  left  the 
room  he  caught  sight  of  Jhe  blue  chest,  and  his 


46  MR.    TOMMY  DOVE. 

sudden  pang  of  regret  was  like  physical  pain. 
He  took  the  shabby  bag  to  his  room,  and  with 
unsteady  hands  thrust  a  few  of  his  possessions 
into  it.  His  money  he  put  into  his  breast 
pocket,  and  then  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass 
to  see  if  any  one  could  guess  that  under  his 
tightly  buttoned  coat  lay  his  little  store  of 
wealth.  Some  loose  change  he  dropped  into  a 
snuff-box,  which  it  was  his  custom  to  use  instead 
of  a  purse,  and  as  he  did  so  he  noticed  one  new, 
shining  penny.  The  habit  of  these  last  weeks 
asserted  itself,  and  he  thought  of  Effie;  but  it 
was  only  for  a  moment. 

A  little  later,  Mr.  Tommy  Dove  opened  his 
shop  door  and  let  himself  out  into  the  dawn. 

In  the  thick  mist  that  covered  the  garden,  the 
frosted  flower-stalks  stood  up  like  brown,  thin 
ghosts,  and  there  was  a  heavy  scent  of  wet  fallen 
leaves.  Mr.  Tommy  peered  anxiously  about 
for  a  last  pansy,  or  for  some  belated  sweet  pea 
that  had  not  yet  taken  wing;  but  he  could  find 
only  two  small,  dull  asters,  and  a  wilted  spray 
of  salvia  rimmed  witli  frosted  dew.  These  he 
picked,  tying  them  together  with  a  long,  wet 
blade  of  grass.  lie  looked  back  once  at  the  old 
stone  house;  the  reddening  ivy  on  the  south  wall 
was  thinned  by  frost,  and  was  shining  faintly, 
as  though  it  had  rained  in  the  night.  The 
damp  horse  -  chestnutv  leaves  that  covered  the 


MR.   TOMMY  DOVE.  47 

ground  like  a  yellow  mantle  hardly  rustled  as 
he  walked  through  them  to  the  road. 

It  did  not  take  Mr.  Tommy  very  long  to 
climb  the  lane  to  Henry  Temple's  gate.  He 
did  not  enter,  but  stood  pressing  his  face  against 
the  wet,  cold  iron,  and  staring  up  the  dim  drive 
way. 

"Oh,  dear  me!  "  he  said,  with  a  catch  in  his 
breath.  "Why,  just  think  of  it,  I  '11  never  see 
her  again ;  and  the  only  thing  in  the  world  I 
can  do  for  her  is  just  to  go  away  !  " 

Then,  with  a  dull  ache  in  his  heart,  he  began 
to  say  to  himself  that  he  knew  what  a  relief  it 
would  be  to  Miss  Jane  not  to  see  him. 

"She  has  such  a  tender  heart,"  he  said;  "she 
would  be  so  sorry  to  make  me  feel  badly  by  say 
ing  'no.'  Oh  my,  to  think  I  ever  supposed 
she  'd  say  anything  else  !  It  seems  so  selfish  in 
me,  but  —  but  I  did." 

He  looked  at  the  bunch  of  wilted  flowers, 
and  touched  them  softly  with  reverent  fingers. 
A  moment  later  he  laid  them  down  against  the 
stone  gatepost,  and  then  went  slowly  back  into 
the  mist. 

Miss  Jane  Temple,  still  irresolute,  still  mis 
erable,  but  yet  strangely  happy,  waited  for  Mr. 
Tommy  all  that  dim  October  day.  She  did  not 
hear  until  nearly  a  week  later,  a  week  of  mis- 


48  MR.   TOMMY  DOVE. 

givings  and  grief  and  wounded  pride,  that  the 
shop  in  the  village  was  closed,  and  that  no  one 
knew  just  where  the  apothecary  had  gone  nor 
when  he  would  return.  She  never  saw  the  asters 
and  the  salvia ;  and  the  great  iron  gate,  swing 
ing  open  to  let  her  go  away  from  her  old  home, 
told  her  no  story. 

"After  all,"  Mrs.  Temple  comforted  herself, 
when  the  family  were  safe  in  town  again,  "we 
needn't  have  been  anxious.  He  never  could 
have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  though  Henry 
thought  he  did, — and  so  did  Janey!  But  an 
unmarried  woman  of  her  age  is  very  likely  to 
make  such  a  mistake." 


THE  FACE   ON  THE   WALL. 

I. 

"BuT  what  does  she  see  in  him  to  love?  " 

"  Well,  she  sees  something,  evidently ;  and  if 
Annie  sees  it,  that  is  all  that  is  necessary." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes;  I  know.  But  if  he  would 
only  show  us  some  of  the  good  things  —  I 
want  to  like  him,  I  'm  sure." 

Annie  Murray  had  been  married  that  morn 
ing,  and  now,  in  the  early  December  dusk,  her 
four  sisters,  tired  by  the  excitement  of  the  day, 
quivering  yet  from  the  pain  of  parting,  sat  by 
the  fire  in  the  parlor  talking  it  all  over.  They 
had  said  to  one  another  how  pretty  she  was,  how 
nicely  her  gray  traveling  dress  fitted,  and  how 
well  their  mother's  pearl  pin  looked  in  the  lace 
about  her  throat ;  and  then  Miss  Sarah  Murray, 
the  eldest  of  the  five  sisters,  said,  with  an  effort 
that  brought  the  blood  into  her  delicate  old  face, 
"And  —  and  Mr.  Calkins;  he  appeared  very 
well,  I  thought." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment.  The  repression 
which  they  had  put  upon  themselves  after  Annie 


50 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 


had  finally,  despairingly,  set  their  pleadings 
aside  and  engaged  herself  to  Paul  Calkins,  that 
repression  still  commanded  them. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  appeared  very  well,"  Mary 
said  vaguely.  And  then  there  was  silence  for 
the  space  of  a  breath,  till  Miss  Nannie  broke 
ont  with  the  cry  of  "  What  does  she  see  in  him 
to  love?"  To  hear  their  own  thought  put  into 
words  startled  these  four  gentle,  kindly  women 
like  a  thread  of  electricity  leaping  around  their 
circle  by  the  fireside. 

Annie  was  their  youngest;  and  yet  not  so 
young  that  she  had  not  caught  a  little  of  their 
sweet  precision,  their  soft,  reserved  femininity. 
The  people  in  Mercer  who  knew  the  Murray  s, 
and  were  of  a  younger  and  more  irreverent  age, 
called  them  the  five  old  maids;  but  their  friends 
of  a  more  courteous  generation  always  spoke  of 
them  as  the  "Murray  girls,"  though  Miss  Sarah 
was  at  least  fifty-five,  and  Mary,  next  in  youth 
to  Annie,  was  over  forty.  No  one  dreamed 
that  any  of  the  Murray  girls  would  marry ;  no 
one  ever  had  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  since  the 
time  when  Edward  Paul  jilted  Miss  Sarah  for 
a  cleverer  woman,  who  dazzled  his  eyes  and 
blinded  him,  even  as  the  flare  of  a  candle  may 
sometimes  hide  a  star.  Annie  was  a  baby  when 
Sarah  Murray's  grief  came  to  her, — a  grief 
which  touched  her  life  like  a  consecrating  hand, 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  51 

putting  her  quietly  back  from  happiness   into 
usefulness.     She  devoted  herself  to  her  sisters; 
especially  to    Annie,    to  whom    she    gave    that 
mother-love  which  childless  women  know.     An 
nie  was  nearly  thirty  years  younger  than  Sarah, 
but  she  too  was  a  "Murray  girl;"  quiet,  old- 
fashioned,  —  old-maidish,    the  irreverent    said. 
So  when,  at  last,  suddenly,  Annie  had  a  lover, 
people  looked  a  little  blank,  and  said:   "What? 
Annie  Murray?     Why,  we  never  supposed" 
And  then  they  had  to  adjust  their  idea  of  the 
five  sisters,  and  observe  that  Annie  at  twenty- 
seven,  a  little  prim,   with  sweet,   delicate,  old- 
fashioned  ways,  was  yet  an  exceedingly  pretty 
woman,  full  of  the  calm  attraction  of  pleasant 
silence.     They  began  to  say  that  Annie  was  so 
quiet  that  they  had  never  known  her.      "That 
youngest  Murray  girl  is  like  a  handful  of  rose 
leaves,"  somebody  said;   "but  I  believe  she  has 
more  to  her  than  any  of  the  others."     And  then 
all  her  little  world  began   to  take  the  greatest 
interest  in  her  wooing. 

Somehow,  in  spite  of  their  reserve,  it  came 
out  that  the  four  older  sisters  were  opposed  to 
the  match.  Perhaps  their  disapproval  was 
guessed  by  the  trouble  in  Annie's  eyes,  or  the 
servants'  tattle  betrayed  it,  or  people  may  have 
seen  for  themselves  —  and  then  drawn  their  own 
conclusions  —  the  coarse,  weak  lines  in  Paul's 


52  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

face;  a  face  which  made  the  pathetic  confession 
that  the  poor  soul  behind  it,  agonize  as  it  might, 
was  dogged  and  hunted  by  the  body,  dominated 
by  the  flesh. 

But  there  was  one  other  way  in  which  the 
sisters'  disapproval  had  been  made  known :  Mr. 
Calkins  had  been  willing  to  laugh  a  little,  good- 
naturedly,  at  the  "four  old  maids  who  were 
afraid  of  him." 

"That  he  could  speak  of  such  matters,  Annie 
dear,  that  he  could  tell  anybody  that  we  were 
not  pleased  —  don't  you  see?  It  shows  that  he 
does  not  have  the  delicacy  that  —  that  we  might 
wish,"  Miss  Sarah  had  said  to  her  youngest 
sister. 

"You  don't  understand,  Sarah,"  Annie  an 
swered  sadly.  She  never  tried  by  insistence 
to  make  them  appreciate  him ;  perhaps  she  was 
too  sensitive  for  his  dignity  to  take  such  means; 
perhaps  she  realized  the  worthlessness  of  regard 
gained  by  insistence. 

Miss  Sarah  and  the  other  three  alarmed  and 
disapproving  women  said  all  they  could,  prayed 
for  her,  agonized  over  her,  cowered  at  the  threat 
of  the  future,  and  then,  when  at  last,  in  spite 
of  all,  Annie  Murray  gave  her  word,  then  they 
were  silent,  even  to  each  other,  —  silent  save 
when,  with  the  fine  deceit  of  love,  they  ap 
plauded  to  their  little  world  their  sister's  choice. 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  53 

Now,  however,  when  it  was  all  over,  and  she 
had  married  him  and  gone  away,  and  the  four 
bereaved  women  sat  here  alone  before  the  parlor 
fire,  Miss  Nannie's  grief  spoke:  "What  does 
she  see  in  him?  " 

"'His  painting  attracts  her,"  Emily  said, 
weakly.  And  then  they  all  four  glanced  up  at 
the  picture  above  the  fireplace:  it  had  been 
Paul  Calkins 's  present  to  his  sisters-in-law. 

It  was  a  woman's  face  pressing  itself  through 
crowding  vine  leaves,  as  though  a  girl  in  a  vine 
yard  looked  for  a  moment  out  upon  the  world: 
a  dim  face,  with  smiling  lips  and  eyes  deep  with 
pain,  but  a  pain  that  had  nothing  spiritual  in 
it;  a  beautiful  face,  yet  full  of  the  bitterness 
that  lies  behind  sensuality. 

"Her  soul  is  trying  to  speak,  but  it  cannot," 
Annie  Murray  said,  when  the  sisters  stood  look 
ing  at  the  canvas,  embarrassed  at  a  gift  which 
was  kindly  meant,  but  which  was  not,  Miss 
Nannie  said,  "pleasing." 

Miss  Sarah  adjusted  her  glasses  twice,  pathet 
ically  anxious  to  see  what  Annie  saw.  Emily 
blushed  and  turned  away,  for  the  bare  bosom 
offended  her,  "and  she  has  too  red, a  lip  to  be 
nice,"  Miss  Emily  thought.  Annie  looked  at 
it  until  a  mist  shut  it  out,  and  then  she  turned 
and  said  something  to  her  lover  which  the  sis 
ters  could  not  hear,  but  which  made  the  tears 


54  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

start  in  his  eyes,  while  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her;  which  was,  Miss  Emily  said  to 
herself,  "most  uncalled  for." 

Now,  to-night,  when  Annie,  as  Paul's  wife, 
was  whirling  out  into  the  great  world,  whirling 
away  from  all  the  love  which  had  protected  her 
youth,  the  four  sisters  looked  up  at  the  painted 
face,  and  one  sighed,  and  another  shook  her 
head,  and  dear  Miss  Nannie  broke  down  and 
cried. 

"And  his   name,"   she  said,    with  a   sob,  - 
"Calkins!      Sister,    really,  a  man  with  a  name 
like  that  can't  be  —  can't  be" 

"Paul  is  a  good  name,  Nannie,"  Miss"  Sarah 
tried  to  comfort  her. 

"And  we  don't  know  anything  about  his  peo-' 
pie  !  " 

"His  father  and  mother  are  dead,"  Emily 
cautioned  her:  "we  ought  not  to  speak  disre 
spectfully  of  his  parents." 

"I  did  n't  mean  to,"  Nannie  answered,  wip 
ing  her  eyes;  "only,  Emily,  Calkins  is  a  shock 
ing  name ;  and  he  told  me  himself  that  he  has 
a  brother  who  is  a  mechanic.  Just  think  how 
father  would  feel !  " 

"Now,  Nannie,  Nannie,"  interposed  the  old 
est  sister,  "that  is  very  wrong.  I  am  surprised 
at  you,  my  dear.  I  'm  sure,  if  he  will  make 
Annie  happy,  I  don't  care  what  his  brother  is. 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  o5 

I  only  wish  I  could  see  the  amiable  qualities 
that  Annie  does,  and  that  I  didn't  have  just  a 
little  misgiving  at  his  fondness  for  —  his  glass," 
Miss  Sarah  ended  delicately. 

"Annie  feels,"  Emily  hastened  to  explain, 
"that  his  living  alone  so  much  has  encouraged 
bachelor  habits.  I  believe  gentlemen  living- 
alone  are  fond  of  their  glass  at  dinner.  I  hope 
Annie  will  induce  him  to  drink  milk.  It  is  so 
much  more  nourishing." 

There    was    no    answer    save    Miss    Sarah's 
sigh;  the  firelight  lapsed  and  then  leaped  up, 
summoning   shadows    into    outline    against    the 
dusk,    and   showing    the   dignified,    comfortable 
room,  which,  to   the   sisters'   eyes,  was  full  of 
suggestions  of  Annie.      There  was  the  old-fash 
ioned  square  piano,  bought  just  after  the  war, 
when   the  Murrays   had    more    money  than    in 
these  days  of  falling  interest;  Annie  had  played 
her  little  tunes  upon  it  in  the  summer  twilights 
and  winter  evenings,  ever  since  Mary  had  given 
her  her  first  music  lessons,  nearly  twenty  years 
ago  now.     The  little  prim  water-color  sketches 
hanging  between  the    windows    were    Annie's, 
made  before  she  knew  Paul ;  after  meeting  him 
she  painted  no  more,  which  was  a  grief  to  her 
sisters,  who  could  not  know  how  joyfully  a  soul 
may  recognize  that  the  art  it  has  dared  to  touch 
is  too  great  to  be  essayed  by  anything  but  great- 


50  THE  FACE   ON   THE  \VALL. 

ness.  There  was  a  sampler  Annie  had  worked 
when  she  was  ten,  used  now  as  a  screen  be 
tween  the  sofa  and  the  fire ;  and  near  the  hearth, 
the  little  low  chair  on  which  she  loved  to  sit, 
her  chin  propped  on  her  hands,  staring  into 
the  flames.  Everything  reminded  them  of  her; 
and  most  of  all,  the  bunch  of  white  roses  in  a 
vase  upon  the  table.  She  had  held  them  that 
morning  when  she  was  married. 

"Oh,  if  he  will  only  be  good  to  her,"  Miss 
Nannie  said.      "But  he  is  so  —  strange  !  " 

That  was  the  real  trouble,  the  real  fear: 
Paul  was  so  "strange."  That  he  was  an  artist, 
that  he  painted  unpleasant  pictures,  that  he  had 
a  vulgar  name,  even  that  he  was  fond  of  his 
glass, — these  were  superficial  objections.  Be 
low  them  was  a  grim  and  terrifying  fact:  he 
was  unkind  to  Annie  !  lie  was  careless  of 
her  feelings;  he  was  not  polite  to  her  ("that's 
where  the  mechanic  comes  in,"  Miss  Nannie 
sighed).  lie  had  been  so  impatient  and  irritable 
while  they  were  engaged  that  more  than  once 
the  sisters  had  seen  traces  of  tears  on  her  face ; 
lie  forgot  his  appointments  with  her,  and  then 
laughed  at  her  anxiety.  lie  loved  her?  Oh, 
of  course,  of  course.  At  least,  he  seemed  to  at 
times.  Certainly,  he  was  not  hampered  by  any 
reserve  or  delicacy  in  expressing  his  affection  — 
when  he  felt  it.  lie  did  not  hesitate  to  kiss 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  57 

Annie  before  the  sisters,  although  the  four 
elderly  women  blushed  hotly,  and  looked  away, 
and  wondered  how  Annie  could  endure  "such 
things."  Still,  that  was  Love,  no  doubt.  But 
what  sort  of  love  was  it  that  could  be  unkind? 
What  weight  did  it  have  against  rudeness  that 
once  Miss  Emily  found  him  on  his  knees  before 
Annie,  saying  hoarsely,  "I  'm  a  brute  to  you  !  " 

"You  are!'''  Emily  said  to  herself  bitterly. 
"If  it  wasn't  true,  there  might  be  some  merit 
in  saying  so.  You  'd  better  mend  your  man 
ners  than  say  how  bad  they  are." 

But  Annie  was  apparently  so  sure  of  his  love 
that  his  manners,  which  the  sisters  felt  spoke 
his  character,  caused  her  no  concern.  Yet  how 
could  love  like  that  insure  her  happiness  ? 

No  wonder  that  these  four  women,  who  also 
loved  her,  sat  with  heavy  hearts  about  the 
hearth  on  this  evening  of  Annie  Murray's  wed 
ding-day. 

II. 

When  the  letters  began  to  come,  there  was 
nothing  to  read  between  the  lines.  Paul's 
work,  Paul's  plans,  Paul's  high  ideals, — the 
four  Misses  Murray  read  of  these  until  they 
felt,  as  Miss  Nannie  said,  "as  though  dear  Paul 
occupied  Annie's  thoughts  very  much." 

"Well,  that  is  as  it  should  be,"  Emily  said 


58  THE  FACE  OX   THE  }}'ALL. 

sturdily.      "I  'm  sure  if  she  wasn't  attached  to 
him,  then  we  should  have  cause  for  anxiety." 

And  they  felt  they  could  conscientiously  say 
to  their  friends  that  Annie  was  very  happy, 
even  though  they  themselves  were  not  happy 
about  her. 

Once  in  the  first  year  Miss  Nannie  went  to 
see  Annie,  and  came  back  looking  older,  and 
with  vague,  half-frightened  perplexity  in  her 
face.  "I  cannot  understand  Paul,"  she  told 
her  sisters;  "but  I  'in  sure  he  means  to  do 
right." 

And  then,  little  by  little,  she  confessed  her 
perplexities:  Annie  had  very  little  money; 
Nannie  felt  it  was  fortunate  that  her  own  quar 
ter's  allowance  had  scarcely  been  touched  save 
for  this  trip.  Annie  was  a  little  fussy  about 
taking  it,  but  Paul  told  her  not  to  be  foolish. 
"Paul  is  very  sensible  about  such  things,"  Nan 
nie  said.  It  did  not  seem  as  though  they  were 
living  in  a  pleasant  neighborhood;  but  Annie 
explained  that  by  saying  that  rents  were  high, 
and  Paul  did  if  t  mind  where  he  lived,  he  was 
so  full  of  his  work. 

"That  shows  a  good  spirit,"  Emily  declared; 

and  Miss  Nannie  said,  "Yes;  oh,   of    course," 

and  sighed;    "and  yet,"  she  ended,  "Paul  does 

say  such  —  such  wrong  things  to  Annie!  " 

"Does  Annie    seem   happy?"  Sarah   asked, 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  59 

putting  her  sewing  down  in  her  lap  because  her 
hands  trembled. 

"Yes,"  Nannie  answered;  "but  —  I  don't 
know  why  she  should  be!  " 

It  was  nearly  a  year  later  that  Miss  Sarah 
made  her  visit;  it  was  then  that  the  baby  was 
born,  and  died.  Annie  had  grieved,  but  not  as 
one  would  think  a  woman  would  grieve  for  her 
first  -  born ;  her  only  thought  seemed  to  be  to 
get  well  as  soon  as  possible,  for  Paul's  sake. 
Her  illness  and  his  anxiety  about  her  —  which 
took  the  form  of  excessive  irritability  —  inter 
fered  with  his  work :  she  must  get  well !  As 
for  Paul,  it  seemed  to  Miss  Sarah  that  he  was 
quite  without  natural  feeling. 

"You  are  well  out  of  it!  "was  all  he  said 
when,  with  clear,  bright  eyes,  he  stood  looking 
down  at  the  placid  mystery  of  the  little  dead 
face.  But  he  stood  there  a  long  time.  This 
little  creature  had  stolen  out  of  Annie's  love 
and  his,  parting  like  a  curtain  their  conscious 
nesses,  and  then  turning  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold  of  death  to  look  back,  wise  and  mock 
ing,  before  it  slipped  out  into  silence. 

Perhaps  Paul,  looking  down  at  the  dead 
child,  felt  afraid  of  its  little  separate  existence, 
—  loved  it,  hated  it,  wondered  at  it ;  wished  he 
could  follow  it  and  grasp  the  mystery;  felt,  per 
haps,  half  sorry  for  the  unspent  life,  yet  felt, 


60  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

too,  the  pang  of  the  prisoner  who  sees  freedom 
granted  to  some  one  else.  Perhaps  he  was  con 
fronted  by  his  fatherhood,  and  it  came  into  his 
mind  that  with  such  a  father  the  little  quiver 
ing,  hesitating  life,  blown  out  into  the  darkness, 
was  well  rid  of  living?  One  cannot  tell.  The 
tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  to  Miss 
Sarah,  with  a  laugh:  "This  world  isn't  a  good 
place;  the  young  one  is  well  out  of  it." 

When    Miss    Sarah  went  home,   she  did  not 
attempt    any  further    disguise  with   herself   or 
her  sisters :   the  marriage  had  turned  out  badly. 
Annie  was  very  poor,  for  her  quarterly  allow 
ance  was  not  enough  to  support  two,  and  Paul's 
pictures   did  not    seem,  Miss   Sarah   said,    "to 
be  popular."     "Oh,  no  doubt  he  's  fond  of  her 
—  in  his  way,"  the  older  sister  admitted  with 
an  effort;  but  he  was  unkind  to  her,  bitterly 
neglectful,  full  of  insistent  demands  upon  her 
time  and  strength   and  love.     These  were  the 
facts,  and  the  four  women  had  to  accept  them  as 
a  settled  grief.      Furthermore,  they  were  forced 
to  realize  that  they  were  helpless  to  make  things 
better;  and  such  a  realization  gives  to  the  ob 
server  of  an  unhappy  marriage  a  pang  which, 
bad  as  their  condition  may  be,  the  principals  do 
not  know. 

The  summing  up  of  it  all  was  that  Paul  drank. 
There  could  at  last  be  no  doubt  of  this.     It 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  61 

was  the  day  the  baby  was  buried  that  Miss 
Sarah's  eyes  were  pitilessly  opened  to  it.  She 
had  gone  out  with  him  to  the  cemetery,  and  had 
come  back  touched  in  spite  of  her  resentment. 
He  wept,  she  told  her  sisters  afterwards,  as  he 
carried  the  little  coffin  in  his  arms  from  the 
carriage  to  the  grave ;  and  when  they  came  home 
to  Annie,  and  to  the  house  where  the  shadow 
seemed  still  to  linger,  Paul  was  so  absorbed  in 
his  grief  that  he  was  entirely  forgetful  of  her 
presence,  and  "quite  gave  way,"  Miss  Sarah 
said,  in  that  awed  voice  with  which  a  woman 
comments  on  a  man's  tears.  "And  then,"  she 
went  on,  "I  thought  in  the  evening  that  he 
seemed  very  much  moved;  he  was  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hands,  and  did  not  answer  when  I 
spoke  to  him,  and  I  was  quite  alarmed,  fearing 
that  he  was  in  a  swoon.  But  I  went  up  to  him, 
and  —  his  breath  —  I  —  I  —  realized  what  it 
was,"  sighed  Miss  Sarah;  "and  such  conduct 
shows  he  did  not  love  the  dear  little  baby." 

"Oh,  poor  Annie,  poor  child!"  said  the  sis 
ters. 

They  never  dreamed,  these  four  tender  wo 
men,  how  Sarah's  pity,  her  very  presence,  had 
been  an  intolerable  burden  to  Annie.  That 
well  -  meant,  tender  intrusion  of  pity  which 
comes  to  the  woman  whose  trouble  lies  between 
herself  and  her  husband,  too  deep  to  be  reached 


62  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

by  any  outside  comfort,  rouses  sometimes  a 
helpless  impatience,  almost  an  irritation,  that 
has  to  be  smothered  under  perfunctory  accept 
ance  and  vague  acknowledgments  of  kindness. 

Annie  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  her 
sister  went  away ;  and  then  she  cried  for  very 
pity  of  herself  that  she  could  not  feel  that  old 
dear  regret  of  missing  Sarah.  She  was  glad 
she  and  Paul  were  alone  again,  alone  with  their 
grief  for  the  little  baby  and  with  the  absorbing 
interest  of  living. 

Very  likely,  Annie,  in  the  stress  and  strain 
of  her  life,  never  quite  realized  how  her  sisters 
suffered  because  of  her  suffering.  Little  by 
little,  as  time  went  by  and  she  did  not  see  them, 
and  their  pleasant,  gossiping  letters  came  into 
circumstances  of  which  they  had  110  comprehen 
sion,  and  touched  with  chattering,  tender  light 
ness  upon  subtleties  of  human  nature  which  they 
could  not  understand,  little  by  little  they  grew 
unreal  to  her.  Sometimes,  with  sad  self -con 
sciousness,  she  felt  that  her  love  for  them  was 
the  child's  love  for  the  things  of  childhood.  It 
was  through  no  fault  of  theirs  or  hers ;  it  was 
the  inexorableness  of  time.  Instead  of  living 
tranquilly  in  the  old  house,  set  in  its  quiet  gar 
den,  with  her  Sunday  -  school  class  for  a  vital 
interest,  her  bits  of  fancy-work  and  her  improv 
ing  reading,  her  calm,  amiable  interest  in  her 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  63 

neighbors,  Annie  had  been  looking  into  the 
depths  of  a  human  soul. 

She  knew  that  if  she  could  open  the  parlor 
door  some  evening,  and  join  the  lamp-lighted 
circle  about  the  table,  she  should  find  the  old 
life  again,  as  it  had  always  been.  She  knew 
the  very  gesture  with  which  Miss  Sarah  would 
open  the  evening  paper,  and  she  could  hear 
Nannie's  invariable  question,  "Well,  who  's 
dead  and  who  's  married,  sister?"  and  then  the 
comments  on  the  news,  shrewd  and  sometimes  a 
little  severe,  but  quite  devoid  of  any  knowledge 
of  life.  She  could  see  the  satisfied  air  with 
which  Miss  Emily  would  shake  out  some  bit  of 
fancy-work  and  say,  "There!  I've  done  three 
fingers  to -night  I"  and  she  would  find  herself 
smiling  as  she  remembered  the  deep  interest  of 
the  moment  when  Mary's  market-book  would  be 
opened  for  accounts,  and  for  comments,  and  for 
surprise  at  the  butcher's  charges.  It  would  all 
be  the  same ;  yet  what  a  stranger  she  would  be 
if  she  joined  the  group  about  the  table  ! 

Her  very  tenderness  for  her  old  life  declared 
that  she  had  become  its  observer ;  and  the  mo 
ment  that  the  consciousness  comes,  of  observing 
Life,  or  Love,  or  a  situation,  the  candid  mind 
knows  that  it  is  an  outsider.  It  was  this  re 
cognition  of  alteration  in  herself  which  was  the 
real  pang  to  Annie;  in  finding  herself  she  had 


64  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

lost  her  sisters,  although  they  did  not  know  it. 
She  knew  they  thought  her  unhappy;  she  knew 
that  by  no  possibility  could  she  ever  make  clear 
to  them  the  happiness  which  brooded  in  her 
heart,  the  exultation  of  her  knowledge  of  her 
husband's  nature,  —  a  certainty  of  knowledge 
which  even  Paul  could  not  shake. 

"Why  do  you  believe  in  me?"  he  cried  out 
to  her  once.  "Don't  trust  me,  don't  believe  in 
me,  Annie  !  " 

"It  is  because  you  are  you,  Paul,"  she  said 
patiently. 

"But  you  don't  know  me  !  "  he  said,  with  the 
voice  of  one  who  tries  to  throw  off  some  burden. 
"Why  can't  you  let  me  go?  I  am  not  what 
you  think  I  am.  Let  me  go." 

"I  will  never  let  you  go." 

"You'll  have  to,  some  time,"  he  said  bru 
tally.  But  Annie  could  meet  that  without  flinch 
ing. 

Perhaps  her  patient  insight  taught  her  how 
he  might  chafe  under  the  restraint  of  her  ideal 
of  him,  and  so  she  could  make  allowance  for 
his  irritation ;  or  perhaps  she  called  it  humility, 
and  believed  in  him  the  more  for  it.  Love  can 
do  such  things.  But  one  falls  to  questioning 
whether  such  love  can  realize  that  the  idealiza 
tion  which  holds  a  man  up  to  his  best,  despite 
himself,  has  all  the  danger  of  the  stimulant. 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  65 

Certainly,  Love's  splendid  courage  rarely  stops 
for  such  reasoning,  just  as  it  is  rarely  generous 
enough  to  allow  its  beloved  to  create  his  own 
ideal. 

"See  what  I  've  brought  you  to  !"  said  Paul, 
lifting  his  face  from  her  knees,  and  flinging  out 
one  trembling  hand. 

uYes;  and  it's  all  wrong,  Paul.  But  some 
day  it  will  stop." 

Her  faith  seemed  to  dazzle  him ;  he  put  his 
head  down  again,  and  lifted  the  hem  of  her  dress 
and  kissed  it.  "I  '11  go  in  to  the  Picture,"  he 
said  after  a  while.  "Bring  me  my  palette;  I  '11 
go  to  work." 

Her  face  lightened  as  a  flower  beaten  by  rain 
lifts  itself  to  sudden  sunshine.  But  he  glanced 
at  her  with  half -wearied,  half -contemptuous  pity. 
"What  do  you  make  of  my  work  being  best 
after  a  spree?  " 

Only  the  smile  in  her  eyes  answered  him. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Paul  was  stung  when 
he  looked  at  Annie's  surroundings.  Annie 
Murray  had  never  known  the  forlornness  of 
"trying  to  get  along"  until  he  had  taken  her 
happiness  and  comfort  into  his  keeping.  But 
she  learned  it  then. 

They  had  boarded  for  a  time  after  the  baby 
died,  and  then  lodged ;  but  even  Annie  quailed 
at  that  kind  of  life,  and  now,  at  last,  they  had 


66  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

drifted  to  the  top  floor  of  a  building  given  up 
to  many  small  businesses,  and  little  personal 
industries.  It  had  been  a  private  house  once, 
and  it  had  still  a  curious  reserve  and  dignity 
about  it,  though  the  crescent  of  leaded  glass 
above  the  entrance  was  broken  in  one  or  two 
places,  and  the  slender  fluted  columns  on  either 
side  of  the  battered  white  door  were  defaced  and 
grimy.  The  rooms  on  the  lower  floors  were  of 
stately  height,  darkened  about  the  ceilings  by 
heavy  cornices,  from  which  the  gilding  had 
chipped  and  fallen,  and  where  for  years  the  dust 
had  heaped  itself.  The  staircase  curved  with  a 
beautiful  sweep,  and  the  hand-rail  kept  as  fine 
a  polish  as  though  the  careful  eyes  of  the  mis 
tress,  dead  these  fifty  years,  saw  that  the  foot 
man  should  do  his  duty  to  the  mahogany ;  the 
ceaseless  slip  of  hurrying  hands  accomplished 
this,  even  as  the  stumble  of  rough  feet  had  worn 
the  bare  oak  of  the  stairs  down  to  the  splintered 
grain.  The  rooms  were  divided  and  subdivided, 
except  on  the  top  floor;  these,  being  smaller, 
were  let  to  lodgers.  Paul  Calkins  and  his  wife 
had  three  of  them,  and  Paul's  sign  was  on  the 
rise  of  the  first  step  in  the  lower  hall :  —  * 


P.  CALKINS, 
Signs. 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  67 

"  We  've  got  to  live,"  the  artist  had  said  sul 
lenly,  when  he  first  brushed  out  Artist  and  wrote 
Signs.  After  a  while  the  signs  became  profit 
able  to  a  degree  which  warranted  the  lease  of 
the  loft  in  the  L,  where  a  skylight  in  the  roof, 
running  the  length  of  the  room,  poured  a  flood 
of  light  upon  the  wooden  signs  which  he  carved 
and  painted  and  sold  to  tobacconists. 

"We  've  got  to  live,  and  I  can  do  these  once 
in  a  while  when  I  'm  not  painting,"  he  said;  and 
when  Annie  answered  calmly,  "No,  we  don't 
have  to  live,  Paul.  Paint,  and  never  mind 
living,"  he  swore  at  her  between  his  teeth,  and 
vowed  he  would  never  touch  a  brush  again.  He 
had  not  kept  his  vow,  yet  most  of  his  time  went 
to  the  signs. 

"They  pay,"  he  explained  briefly  to  the  few 
people  who  remembered  him,  and  recalled  his 
strange  and  brilliant  promise  of  ten  years  be 
fore.  Such  visitors  saw  only  the  signs:  the 
Punchinellos  holding  boxes  of  cigars;  the  In 
dians  with  bunches  of  tobacco  leaves,  —  figures 
executed,  it  had  to  be  admitted,  in  no  slovenly 
way,  but  with  the  fine  precision  of  the  man  who 
sees  the  bones  and  muscles  beneath  the  skin. 
Still,  they  were  tobacco  signs,  and  Paul  Calkins 
seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  showing  them  as  his 
highest  possibility. 

A  curtain  hung  across  one  end  of  the  loft, 


68  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

and  once  a  visitor,  as  much  through  carelessness 
as  curiosity,  brushed  it  aside,  but  dropped  it  at 
Calkins' s  oath,  and  his  own  start  at  what  he 
saw  behind  it. 

"You  paint,  then  —  still?"  he  said  breath 
lessly. 

But  Paul,  white,  and  without  a  word,  took 
him  by  the  shoulder  and  thrust  him  from  the 
room.  Yes,  he  painted  there,  behind  the  cur 
tain;  but  sometimes  he  did  not  go  behind  it 
for  months,  and  only  then,  perhaps,  after  pass 
ing  days  and  nights  in  sullen  sin,  in  shame,  or 
indifference,  or  hopelessness.  Then  he  would 
paint  for  days,  absorbed,  aflame  !  He  said  of 
himself  once  that,  after  he  had  gotten  his  body 
sober,  he  made  his  soul  drunk.  But  at  such 
times  Annie  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
as  a  woman  looks  at  the  high  priest  of  her  soul. 

She  made  great  plans  of  what  would  happen 
when  the  Picture  was  done.  The  world  should 
see  it,  should  be  made  better  by  it.  It  was  a 
comment  on  the  solemn  meaning  of  the  painting 
to  her  that  she  forgot  to  plan  for  Paul's  fame  in 
relation  to  his  work ;  it  was  the  Picture  only. 

And  so  these  last  two  years  had  passed:  in 
the  mean  details  of  poverty;  in  the  noisy  elbow 
ing  of  the  life  about  them ;  in  the  manufacture 
of  tobacconists'  signs;  in  sodden  and  debasing 
weakness.  But  here  and  there,  shining  among 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  69 

the  weary  vulgarity  of  it  all,  came  days  when 
Paul  drew  back  that  curtain,  and  when  he  said 
his  da3mon  came  to  him. 

But  Annie  said  that  then  he  came  to  himself. 


III. 

It  was  in  the  spring  when  old  Miss  Sarah 
said  she  must  see  Annie.  "I  think  I  am  sick 
for  her,"  she  said  simply.  "Will  you  write 
and  ask  her  if  it  is  convenient,  sister?"  the 
other  three  inquired. 

But  Sarah  shook  her  head.  "No;  the  last 
two  times  we  asked  her  that,  she  said  it  wasn't. 
But  I  must  see  her;  I  must  go."  And  she  went. 

The  sisters  packed  a  dozen  dainty  things  into 
the  trunk  for  Annie.  Miss  Mary  made  a  loaf 
of  cake  that  Annie  had  always  liked.  "Do  you 
remember  how  she  used  to  tease  for  it  ?  Bless 
her  little  heart !  "  said  Miss  Mary.  Nannie  was 
more  practical;  for  weeks  she  had  been  crochet 
ing  a  white  worsted  "cloud,"  and  Sarah  should 
take  it  with  her.  Emily  brought  a  big  bunch 
of  apple  blossoms,  and  begged  Miss  Sarah  to 
carry  them  in  her  hand.  "Yes,  I  know  they  '11 
be  faded;  but  Annie  won't  mind.  Tell  her 
they  came  from  the  tree  by  the  strawberry  bed. 
How  the  child  used  to  love  to  climb  that  tree  ! 
I  was  always  afraid  she  'd  break  her  neck." 


70  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

The  night  before  Miss  Sarah  went,  Nannie 
came  into  her  bedroom  with  an  anxious  face. 
"Sister,"  she  said,  "we  've  never  thought  of 
sending  Paul  anything  !  " 

The  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay. 
Miss  Sarah  was  standing  by  her  bureau,  tying 
her  nightcap  under  her  chin,  and  she  paused 
with  the  bow  between  her  fingers.  "Oh,  Nan 
nie,  that  will  never  do  !  Annie  would  feel  it." 

"I  can't  think  of  a  thing,"  sighed  Miss  Nan 
nie. 

"A  book?  We  might  buy  him  a  book. 
Mary  could  send  Betsey  around  to  the  station 
er's  while  we  're  at  breakfast." 

But  Miss  Nannie  was  doubtful.  "It  does  n't 
seem  like  Paul  —  a  book." 

"The  only  thing  that  does  seem  like  him  I 
shouldn't  want  to  carry,"  said  Miss  Sarah  sig 
nificantly. 

"Oh,  sister  !  "  said  dear  Miss  Nannie. 

Sarah  looked  contrite,  but  firm. 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  occurred  to  me,"  said  the 
younger  sister,  hesitating ;  "  unless  it  would  not 
be  quite  delicate?"  And  then  she  opened  her 
hand  and  showed  two  eagles.  "I  got  them  at 
the  bank,"  she  said.  "You  girls  can  each  give 
me  five  dollars  if  you  want  to,  or  else  1  '11  give 
it  all  to  him  myself.  You  just  put  it  to  him  in 
a  way  that  won't  offend  him.  Tell  him  it  is  so 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  71 

hard  to  choose  for  a  gentleman;  and  so  —  we 
ventured  —  we  hoped  he  would  accept  —  and 
purchase  something  for  himself.  Ask  him  to 
consider  it  our  gift,"  she  ended. 

In  the  morning,  what  with  the  excitement  of 
a  journey  and  the  pleasant  jingle  in  their  minds 
of  their  list  of  gifts,  the  sisters  felt  a  glow  of 
happiness  about  Annie ;  they  had  decided  that 
Sarah  was  to  induce  her  to  come  back  with  her 
and  make  a  visit  of  a  week.  "  And  tell  Paul  we 
hope  he  can  come,  too,"  said  Miss  Nannie;  and 
the  others  added,  "Oh,  of  course." 

And  so  Miss  Sarah  started.  A  sweet,  timid 
old  lady,  with  gray  hair  coming  down  softly 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  then  looped  back  behind 
her  ears;  her  black  wool  dress  was  gathered 
around  the  waist,  and  fell  in  modest  fullness 
about  her  gaitered  feet;  she  wore  a  shawl,  and 
drawn  on  an  elastic  cord  around  the  crown  of 
her  bonnet,  was  an  old-fashioned  chantilly  lace 
veil,  which  fell  in  soft  wings  on  either  side  her 
face.  She  held  the  bunch  of  apple  blossoms  in 
her  lap,  careful  not  to  touch  the  stems  any  more 
than  she  could  help,  both  to  keep  them  fresh 
and  to  avoid  staining  her  second  best  black  kid 
gloves,  which  were  quite  loose  and  wrinkled,  but 
still  flat  in  the  finger-tips,  as  though  they  had 
never  been  entirely  pulled  on,  and  so  very  shiny 
that  they  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for 
her  best  pair. 


72  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

She  was  full  of  interest  in  her  journey  and  in 
the  people  about  her.  She  spoke  to  a  number 
of  women,  and  was  sweetly  unaware-  of  their 
look  of  surprise,  which,  to  be  sure,  always  melted 
into  gratification.  She  took  a  fretting  child 
into  the  seat  beside  her,  and  gave  him  a  spray 
of  Annie's  apple  blossoms,  and  then  felt  in  her 
pocket  for  some  caraway-seed  candy.  The  joy 
of  seeing  Annie  so  soon,  blurred  the  old  clear 
anxiety  about  Annie's  happiness;  she  pictured 
to  herself  a  dozen  times  her  sister's  delight  at 
the  surprise  of  the  visit.  "Bless  her  heart!  " 
said  Miss  Sarah  to  herself,  "how  glad  the  child 
will  be  to  see  me  !  "  She  knew  Annie  lived  in 
rooms :  she  had  been  told  that  it  was  the  fashion 
now  among  genteel  persons  to  live  in  rooms,  in 
stead  of  having  houses  to  themselves,  and  she 
thought  it  must  be  quite  convenient  for  Annie 
to  have  her  kitchen  and  parlor  and  dining-room 
on  the  same  floor,  but  she  could  not  feel  that  it 
was  altogether  pleasant  to  have  one's  bedroom 
on  a  level  with  the  kitchen.  She  said  this  to 
one  of  the  ladies  with  whom  she  had  made  ac 
quaintance,  but  the  lady  seemed  more  surprised 
at  the  locality  of  Annie's  rooms  than  their 
arrangements.  "Why,"  she  said,  "I  didn't 
know  there  were  any  apartments  down  there ;  I 
thought  all  those  old  houses  had  been  given  up 
to  business."  But  Miss  Sarah  was  not  concerned 
at  that. 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  73 

"  It  is  quite  unpleasant  the  way  business  creeps 
around  old  residences ;  we  have  felt  it  very  much 
in  Mercer.  If  we  did  not  love  our  old  house  so 
much,  my  sisters  and  I  would  be  crowded  out, 
I  suppose.  But  we  are  very  much  attached  to 
it.  My  sister  Annie  was  born  there." 

It  was  la,te  in  the  afternoon  when  she  left  the 
train,  and  came  out  into  a  crowd  of  cabmen  and 
carriages  and  a  surging  tide  of  men  and  women. 
She  held  her  apple  blossoms  and  her  reticule  in 
a  tremulous  grip,  and  was  pallid  and  dazed  by 
the  rush  of  life  about  her.  When  at  last  she 
found  herself  in  the  shelter  of  a  carriage,  she 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions,  and  tried  not 
to  see  the  whirl  outside.  She  had  a  weak  mo 
ment  of  wishing  that  she  had  told  Annie  she 
was  coming,  so  that  Paul  could  have  met  her  at 
the  station.  The  cab  jolted  over  cobble-stones 
or  rumbled  across  brief  strips  of  asphalt,  on 
and  on  and  on,  until  Miss  Sarah  wondered,  in 
sudden  fright,  whether  she  had  left  the  train 
too  soon.  "  It  would  have  been  much  quicker 
to  have  come  all  this  distance  by  rail,"  she  said 
to  herself ;  and  still  the  carriage  rattled  along. 

The  streets  grew  narrower,  the  buildings  less 
imposing,  with  hints  of  having  once  been  used 
as  dwellings.  Here  and  there,  marked  sharply 
with  cheerful  white  lines  between  its  bricks,  a 
red  facade,  keeping  still  its  pillared  doorway 


74  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

and  leaded  sidelights,  showed  itself  unbroken  by 
the  plate  glass  windows  of  a  shop.  It  was  in 
front  of  such  a  house  that  the  cab  at  last  drew 
up.  The  door  stood  open  and  disclosed  the  bare 
hall ;  the  brass  bell-knob  was  out  of  order,  and, 
dangling  from  a  rusty  wire,  hung  like  a  once 
hospitable  hand  broken  at  the  wrist.  The  iron 
hand-rail,  which  curved  into  a  wrought  scroll, 
and  then  lifted  into  a  springing  arch,  was  eaten 
with  rust,  and  broken  here  and  there,  and  the 
steps  themselves  were  flaked  and  worn.  The 
street  was  quite  still ;  a  belated  shopkeeper  on 
the  opposite  side  was  drawing  down  a  corru 
gated  iron  shutter  over  a  window  full  of  musical 
instruments ;  a  Chinaman  came  out  of  his  laun 
dry  in  the  basement  of  this  house  —  which  bore 
the  number  Annie  had  said  was  hers  —  and 
stood,  his  hands  hidden  in  his  flowing  purple 
sleeves,  staring  at  the  lady  in  the  cab  with  in 
different  Oriental  eyes. 

Miss  Sarah  looked  blankly  about;  there  must 
be  some  mistake.  There  were  second  -  hand 
clothes  in  the  window  beside  the  front  door,  and 
there  was  a  swaying  string  of  bird-cages  hang 
ing  from  a  second-story  sill,  which  bore  the 
sign  "Wire  Works."  Annie  couldn't  live 
here !  It  must  be  the  wrong  street.  In  a  panic 
she  summoned  courage  to  speak  to  a  "strange 
man."  With  a  little  cough,  she  asked  a  boy, 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  75 

who  lounged  smoking  in  the  doorway,  staring 
vacantly  at  a  dusty  case  of  tintypes  fastened  on 
the  wall,  if  this  was  the  street  and  number  to 
which  she  had  directed  the  cabman?  The  boy, 
with  slow  indifference,  " guessed  it  was."  And 
Miss  Sarah,  tremulously  polite,  begged  to  know 
if  Mr.  Calkins  lived  here.  "  How  do  I  know?" 
the  boy  said  dully.  "Why  don't  you  look  at 
the  steps?" 

"Steps?"  said  Miss  Sarah.  He  jerked  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder  to  show  her  the  signs 
on  the  rise  of  each  step,  and  she  saw  that  "P. 
Calkins  "  was  on  the  fifth  floor.  Other  notices 
invited  her,  —  a  clairvoyant  on  the  fourth  floor, 
hats  re -pressed  on  the  second,  —  entreaties  from 
all  the  stragglers  for  existence  hived  beneath 
this  ancient  roof. 

Sarah  Murray's  heart  sank.  She  had  never, 
in  all  the  sweet  quiet  of  living,  come  near 
enough  to  Life  to  feel  its  aching  throb  and 
pulse.  The  shadow  of  humanity  began  to 
stretch  across  her  peace;  but  it  took  the  per 
sonal  expression;  it  was  dismay  that  Annie 
should  be  here !  As  she  climbed  the  bare,  ill- 
kept  stairs,  that  curved  with  a  stately  sweep 
up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  she  stopped  once  and 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  then  resolutely  stuffed  her 
handkerchief  into  her  reticule;  Annie  must  not 
see  any  tears ! 


76  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

Each  floor  had  been  divided  and  altered  to 
hold  as  many  tenants  as  possible,  and  the  hall 
windows  were  shut  into  small  rooms,  so  that  the 
passages  were  nearly  dark.  Miss  Sarah's  heart 
seemed  to  beat  up  in  her  throat ;  it  came  into 
her  mind  that  she  might  meet  a  drunken  person 
here,  but  she  never  thought  of  turning  back. 
If  Annie  lived  here,  Annie's  sister  must  know 
it;  but  her  knees  shook  under  her.  She  was 
so  exhausted  when  she  reached  the  top  of  the 
building  that  she  had  to  stop  and  lean  against 
the  wall  to  get  her  breath.  There  was  a 
ground-glass  door  beside  her;  she  could  hear 
people  talking  in  the  room  within. 

"Oh,  damn  you!  "  said  a  man's  voice,  "can't 
you  be  quiet?  Your  everlasting  fuss  is  enough 
to  drive  a  man  to  hell.  I  shall  go  out,  and  I 
shall  do  what  I  please  with  the  money;  if  I 
double  it,  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  I  don't 
care." 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul!" 


IV. 

How  long  Miss  Sarah  waited,  hiding  in  those 
dark  passages  until  Paul  should  go  out,  she  did 
not  know;  despair  filled  up  the  moments.  Af 
terwards,  when  Annie  had  made  her  as  comfort 
able  as  she  could  for  the  night,  she  covered  her 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  77 

face  with  her  hands,  and  sat  silently  in  the 
dark ;  she  dared  not  sob,  and  to  the  old  there 
may  not  come  the  easy  relief  of  tears.  Paul 
would  be  out  late,  Annie  said,  and  she  would 
not  let  her  sister  sit  up  to  see  him.  Miss 
Sarah  mutely  did  as  she  was  bid.  Yes,  they 
would  talk  the  next  day,  she  said;  Annie  would 
listen  in  the  morning  to  all  the  home  news ;  of 
course  that  was  better  than  talking  to-night, 
when  the  older  sister  was  tired.  Yes,  yes,  she 
would  go  to  bed  and  rest.  She  was  afraid  to 
make  a  sound,  lest  Annie  might  hear  her,  for 
she  was  in  a  little  room,  scarcely  more  than  a 
closet,  opening  from  one  which  seemed  to  be 
kitchen  and  dining-room  and  parlor  in  one. 
She  had  had  only  a  glimpse  of  her  surroundings 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp  Annie  held,  but  they 
told  the  story. 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night;  all  about 
her  beat  the  roar  of  a  great  city,  but  the  clamor 
in  her  own  heart  shut  that  out.  She  sat  in 
tense  listening.  After  midnight  the  sound 
came;  the  shuffling  step,  the  stumbling  voice. 
Then  the  old  sister  wrung  her  hands  in  the 
darkness. 

Paul  was  "ill,"  Annie  said,  in  the  morning, 
and  so  Miss  Sarah  did  not  see  him  until  late  in 
the  afternoon.  He  was  very  polite  to  her  then, 
and  very  tender  to  Annie,  but  he  said  little, 


78  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

only  in  a  low  voice,  once  or  twice,  to  his  wife, 
looking  at  her  with  those  poor  hunted  eyes 
set  in  a  beast's  face.  "Annie,  I  must  paint 
to-morrow,  --  I  must ;  you  won't  let  any  one 
bother  me?" 

Annie's  face  lit  and  flushed.  "I  want  sister 
to  see  what  you  are  doing,  Paul;  may  I  take 
her  in  some  time  to-morrow?" 

"Any  time  you  wish,"  he  said  humbly. 
"Anything  good  in  my  work,  Miss  Murray,  is 
Annie's;  it  is  Annie  herself  !  " 

And  Miss  Murray  said  to  herself,  "He  is  a 
hypocrite  as  well  as  an  unkind  person;"  and 
her  face  grew  as  cold  as  a  very  gentle  face  can. 
She  had  brought  out  her  gifts  that  morning, 
except  Nannie's.  She  could  not  give  Paul  those 
two  gold  eagles.  What!  give  Nannie's  hardly 
spared  money  to  this  drunken,  cruel  man,  this 
man  who  made  Annie  cry?  No!  "At  least, 
not  yet,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  despairingly  aware 
that  she  would  soon  have  a  change  of  heart; 
Miss  Sarah  being  one  of  those  women  who  can 
not  long  be  angry,  and  who  count  such  inability 
the  misfortune  and  the  weakness  which  it  is. 

When  Paul  went  into  the  loft  to  paint  the 
next  morning,  Annie  talked  a  little  about  him 
and  about  his  work.  Whether  she  knew  that 
Miss  Sarah  had  discerned  the  signs  of  dissipa 
tion  and  was  silent  concerning  them,  or  whether 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  79 

she  really  thought  her  sister  ignorant  of  them, 
Miss  Sarah  could  not  tell;  there  was  no  under 
tone  of  misery  in  her  voice,  no  self -consciousness 
of  mortification.  Annie  said  frankly  that  they 
were  very  poor ;  she  had  not  liked  to  trouble 
the  sisters  by  telling  them  about  it,  and  she 
trusted  Miss  Sarah  not  to  let  them  feel  uncom 
fortable  or  to  feel  uncomfortable  herself;  "for 
I  am  a  happy  woman,  sister,"  she  said. 

She  had  been  washing  the  dishes  as  she  talked, 
and  she  shook  the  tea  towel  out  of  its  damp 
wrinkles  and  hung  it  upon  the  door  of  the  small 
stove.  The  room  was  very  bare :  there  was  no 
carpet  or  mat,  and  no  display  upon  the  walls  of 
shining  copper,  such  as  beautified  Miss  Mary's 
domain  at  home.  Only  a  well-scrubbed  floor, 
and  a  sill  where  there  was  a  row  of  bright  red 
flower-pots,  and  a  spotless  window  with  a  little 
cross-barred  muslin  curtain  flapping  across  it 
and  shutting  out  no  pleasanter  view  than  end 
less  flat  roofs  and  great  chimney-stacks  and 
iron-shuttered  windows. 

"We  are  fortunate  to  get  these  two  little 
rooms  up  here,  with  that  tiny  place  you  slept  in. 
That  was  Paul's  studio  at  first,  and  then  when 
he  began  this  —  this  other  work,  we  took  the 
loft  at  the  back  of  the  building;  it  is  lighted 
from  the  top." 

Annie  stood  in  a  stream  of  sunshine  beside 


80  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

her  flowers ;  she  had  been  watering  them,  pick 
ing  off  one  or  two  dead  leaves  with  a  touch  that 
was  a  caress.  "The  leaves  get  so  dusty,"  she 
explained;  "even  up  here,  so  high  above  the 
street." 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying;  she 
was  groping  about  to  find  herself  in  relation  to 
her  sister.  She  whose  hands  were  worn  with 
work,  whose  eyes  were  heavy  with  many  tears ; 
she  who  knew  the  brawl  of  the  streets,  the  look 
of  the  saloon  where  she  went  for  Paul ;  she  who 
had  grown  sharp  and  shrewd,  who  bickered  with 
tobacconists  on  the  price  of  an  Indian  or  a  God 
dess  of  Liberty,  and  who  had  come  to  look  dully, 
almost  without  pain,  at  the  vulgarity  of  a  cheap 
and  noisy  business  life,  —  what  had  she  in  com 
mon  with  the  delicate  gentility  of  this  old  sister, 
who  sat  sewing,  putting  small  stitches  into  a  bit 
of  fine  cambric,  or  stroking  the  gathers  with  the 
careful  precision  of  infinite  leisure? 

But  she  tried  to  talk ;  she  told  her  sister  that 
Paul  was  engaged  upon  a  very  wonderful  pic 
ture.  "He  has  been  at  work  upon  it  for  two 
years,"  she  said;  "but  he  will  only  touch  it 
when  he  must.  He  dare  not  touch  it  unless  he 
is  compelled.  I  mean  when  —  when  he  feels 
just  like  it,"  she  ended  weakly. 

"Yes,  when  he  is  in  the  mood,"  said  Miss 
Sarah,  trying  to  understand. 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  81 

uBut  of  course  he  must  earn  some  money; 
so  he  carves  —  makes  figures  for  signs,  you 
know  —  between  times.  It  is  n't  his  real  work, 
of  course." 

"Very  sensible,  I'm  sure,"  Miss  Sarah  re 
plied,  relieved  to  find  something  to  commend. 

"If  he  had  not  this  reverence  for  his  art," 
Annie  struggled  on,  "he  would  paint  pictures, 
just  to  sell  them.  But  he  won't  do  that.  It 
would  seem  desecration  to  Paul." 

Miss  Sarah  knitted  her  brows  anxiously. 
"Desecration  to  sell  his  work,  my  dear?  Why, 
I  thought  —  doesn't  he  sell  the  signs?" 

"Oh,  they  are  nothing,  —the  signs!  They 
have  nothing  to  do  with  his  art,"  Annie  said 
eagerly.  "He  goes  to  his  painting  as  a  priest 
goes  to  the  altar,  sister;  indeed,  with  more 
reverence,  for  I  've  known  Paul  not  to  touch 
the  Picture  for  three  months,  because  he  was 
not  summoned! " 

Miss  Sarah  looked  quite  blank. 

"I  only  mention  this  to  explain  the  signs; 
you  '11  see  them  when  we  go  in  to  look  at  the 
Face." 

"Is  the  picture  a  face?"  said  Miss  Sarah, 
thinking  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart  of  the  pic 
ture  above  the  fireplace  at  home. 

"Yes,"  Annie  told  her;  "there  is  more  than 
that,  but  somehow  I  only  think  of  the  Face.  I 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

won't  tell  you  what  it  is;  you  must  sea  it  for 
yourself." 

But,  as  it  happened,  she  did  not  see  it  until 
two  or  three  days  later.  Paul  never  left  the 
Picture,  and  there  was  nothing  said  of  taking 
Miss  Sarah  into  the  loft  while  he  was  at  work, 
although  she,  anxious  to  be  agreeable  to  her 
brother-in-law,  proposed  that  she  and  Annie 
should  go  and  sit  with  him  while  he  painted. 
She  went  out  once  or  twice  with  Annie,  bravely 
ignoring  the  dreadful  flights  of  stairs  up  which 
she  must  climb  to  get  home,  and  clinging  to 
her  sister's  arm  at  every  crossing,  with  a  fright 
ened  clutch  that  told  how  devoid  of  anything 
like  pleasure  was  the  sight-seeing  Annie  pro 
posed.  She  wrote  home  regularly,  —  those 
long,  empty,  affectionate  letters  which  ladies  like 
Miss  Sarah  send  to  their  families.  She  said 
nothing  of  the  weight  that  lay  on  her  heart  in 
regard  to  Paul,  —  she  was  eating  his  bread,  and 
she  must  not  say  what  she  thought  of  him ;  only 
that  he  was  working  "as  though  he  was  pos 
sessed,"  and  that  without  any  consciousness  of 
the  truth  she  may  have  touched  in  the  words. 
She  spoke  of  Annie's  plants,  and  how  well  her 
Kenilworth  ivy  looked ;  and  how  her  wedding- 
dress  had  been  made  over  once,  and  then  dyed ; 
and,  she  added,  it  dyed  a  very  good  black.  She 
told  Mary  that  Annie  used  a  special  kind  of 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  83 

oatmeal,  and  that  she  had  enjoyed  going  to 
market  with  her  several  times,  and  she  observed 
that  the  market  was  "quite  different"  from  the 
one  in  Mercer.  She  had  pointed  that  difference 
out  to  Annie,  glad  to  have  something  interesting 
to  talk  about.  She  talked  a  good  deal  about 
Mercer,  and  of  the  vicissitudes  and  affairs  of 
different  families;  of  Rev.  Mr.  Brown's  loss  of 
his  son,  of  Mrs.  Brown's  difficulties  with  ser 
vants,  —  for  Annie  would  remember  that  Mrs. 
Brown  always  had  difficulties  with  servants.  It 
indicated  poor  Mrs.  Brown's  breeding  that  she 
never  kept  her  women  more  than  a  few  months. 
"Mamma  always  said  that  it  reflected  on  the 
family  to  change  servants,"  said  Miss  Sarah. 

If  Annie  did  not  listen,  Miss  Sarah  did  not 
know  it;  it  was  her  duty  to  talk,  and  to  try 
to  be  entertaining.  Perhaps  Annie,  weary  and 
chafing  sometimes  under  the  soft  flow  of  simple 
gossip,  never  realized  the  pathetic  effort  of  the 
tender  old  aching  heart  to  do  her  part,  and  "be 
entertaining." 

Annie,  in  the  silence  of  her  soul,  was  follow 
ing  her  husband's  brush;  she  crept  in  with  his 
food  at  noon,  but  she  did  not  talk  to  him ;  she 
kept  her  glorying  to  herself ;  she  planned  again 
and  again  the  scene  when  the  revelation  of  Paul's 
nature  would  come  to  her  sister.  She  decided 
to  take  her  into  the  loft  at  noon ;  the  light  then 


84  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

upon  that  uplifted,  agonized,  radiant  Face  was 
best.     Sarah  must  see  it  at  its  best.     Then  she 
would  understand  !      Annie  smiled  and  sighed 
at  once.      She  longed  that  her  husband's  self 
should   be    recognized,  and  yet  in  the  absence 
of  such  recognition  she  had  all  the  exultation 
of  the  discoverer.      She  knew;  she  always  had 
known;  when  the  long-delayed  appreciation  of 
him  should  come,  there  would  be  joy  and  pride, 
but  there  would  also  be  a  little  contempt  as  well. 
It  must  have  been  the  third  or  fourth  day  that 
Paul,  at  noon,  came  back  across  the  hall,  ex 
hausted,  pallid,  but  gentle,  although  remote  and 
vague.     He  would  not  work  any  more  that  day, 
he    told   his  wife,    resting  his   hand   upon   her 
shoulder,  and   looking   at  her  with  contented, 
tired  eyes.     Annie  silently  took  his  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

"Go  out,  dear;  go  and  take  a  good  long  walk; 
you  need  it,"  she  said;  then  they  were  silent 
for  a  moment,  looking  at  each  other  as  though 
they  had  forgotten  Miss  Sarah. 

When  he  had  gone,  Annie  turned  eagerly  to 
her  sister;  "Now  you  shall  see  it !"  she  cried. 
Her  excitement  brought  the  color  into  her 
cheeks ;  she  looked  young  and  happy. 

When  Annie  opened  the  door  of  the  loft,  Miss 
Sarah  was  quite  startled  by  the  company  in 
which  she  found  herself.  A  half-dozen  signs  in 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  85 

one  stage  of  completion  or  another  stood  about 
under  the  skylight;  the  sparkling  day  outside 
fell  in  a  long  block  of  sunshine  upon  the  floor, 
and  over  it  came  and  went  gayly  the  shadow 
from  a  flag  on  some  higher  building  beyond. 
There  were  pots  of  paint  and  some  brushes  near 
the  unfinished  figure  of  an  Indian,  who  had  a 
panther  skin  across  his  shoulder,  and  a  quiver 
on  his  back ;  he  wore  moccasins  and  buckskins ; 
there  were  feathers  in  his  straight  black  hair, 
and  one  sinewy  hand  shaded  his  keen  eyes. 
Miss  Sarah  did  not  know  enough  to  realize  the 
remarkable  excellence  of  the  carving;  but  she 
said  it  was  lifelike.  The  figure  of  a  ragged 
colored  boy  holding  out  a  box  of  cigars  pleased 
her  more,  because,  she  said,  he  was  cunning; 
and  she  liked  a  sailor  with  a  bunch  of  tobacco 
leaves  in  his  hand.  She  took  them  all  seriously. 
She  was  truly  relieved  to  be  able  to  admire. 
Annie  waited  impatiently  for  the  examination 
to  end;  but  Miss  Sarah  was  too  interested  to 
be  hurried.  The  room,  low-roofed,  with  rafters 
meeting  in  shadowy  arches  overhead,  the  paint- 
pots,  streaked  and  splashed  with  rich  colors,  the 
strange  lurking-places  under  the  eaves  for  artists' 
properties,  were  all  exciting  to  Miss  Sarah.  An 
old  black  iron  lantern  swung  against  the  chim 
ney-breast,  which  was  rough  between  its  bricks 
with  ridges  of  plaster,  on  which  the  dust  lay  like 


86  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

gray  feathers ;  there  was  a  small  platform  at  one 
side  of  the  room,  and  on  it  was  a  chair  of  black 
oak,  rich  with  carving,  and,  Miss  Sarah  thought, 
very  uncomfortable ;  but  she  was  too  polite  tc 
mention  that ;  and  all  about  her  were  the  tobacco 
signs,  standing  in  the  oblong  of  sunshine,  across 
which  came  and  went  the  shadow  of  the  flag,  or 
over  which  a  passing  cloud  cast  a  momentary 
blur,  like  a  breath  upon  a  mirror. 

A  little  more  than  half  way  down  the  room 
hung  the  curtain,  stretched  from  side  to  side. 
Annie  stood  beside  it,  holding  it  in  her  eager 
hand.  "But,  sister,  this  — this  is  Paul!  "  Her 
voice  trembled;  she  was  silent  a  moment,  as  one 
may  bow  his  head  before  entering  a  holy  place. 
Then  she  drew  the  curtain. 

She  looked  at  Miss  Sarah,  but  she  could  not 
speak. 

The  amiable  effort  to  be  interested  died  out 
of  Sarah  Murray's  face;  it  grew  gently  rever 
ent.  "Why,  Annie f"  she  said,  and  was  silent 
a  moment;  then,  in  a  voice  that  dropped  uncon 
sciously,  "I  didn't  know  that  Paul  ever  painted 
religious  pictures,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  understand?  Can't  you  un 
derstand?" 

Miss  Sarah  did  not  speak ;  then  she  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  seemed  to  rouse  herself.  She 
took  off  her  glasses,  and  went  quite  close  to  the 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  87 

painting,  which,  on  the  unfinished  plaster  of  the 
wall,  stretched  all  across  the  gable  end;  she 
touched  it  in  one  place  with  mild,  inquiring  fin 
ger.  "  Why,  how  real  that  is !  I  really  thought 
it  was  sunshine.  It 's  very  strange,  Annie,  my 
dear.  And  —  and  nice,  of  course;  though,  I 
must  say,  such  pictures  always  seem  to  me  a  lit 
tle  like  the  Catholic  Church.  Just  a  little  pop 
ish,  perhaps.  Paul  is  not  a  Catholic,  is  he?" 
This  with  a  faintly  troubled  look.  Annie  shook 
her  head  and  turned  away.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  to  say. 

"But  I'm  glad  he  paints  religious  pictures, 
Annie,"  Miss  Sarah  said,  following  her.  She 
was  saying  to  herself  that  perhaps  she  had 
misjudged  Paul.  If  he  could  paint  a  religious 
picture,  why  he  must  be  religious,  even  though 
he  did  not  show  it. 

V. 

The  more  Miss  Sarah  thought  of  the  Picture, 
the  more  perplexed  she  was ;  but  she  was  pleased, 
and  she  made  up  her  mind  to  give  Paul  the 
money  Nannie  had  sent  him ;  she  felt  she  had 
been  severe  in  her  judgment  of  him.  "If  he 
paints  religious  topics,  his  conduct  must  be  just 
a  way  he  has,"  she  explained  to  herself. 

"Why,  Annie,"  she  said,  later  in  the  day. 
"I  never  even  knew  he  went  to  church!  I 


88  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

thought  —  indeed  I  'm  very  sorry,  but  I  thought 
he  was  an  infidel!  " 

"He  never  does  go  to  church,"  Annie  an 
swered,  half  smiling.  Perhaps  Sarah  would 
understand  —  in  her  own  way.  But  her  face 
was  gray  and  tired ;  it  had  been  a  great  disap 
pointment;  the  lonely  joy  of  the  discoverer  is 
not,  perhaps,  quite  enough  for  the  human  heart. 

Miss  Sarah  made  haste  to  get  Nannie's  two 
gold  eagles  out  of  her  trunk,  and  brought  them 
to  show  to  Annie,  a  little  self-reproach  tremu 
lous  in  her  eager,  tender  old  voice.  "I  ought 
to  have  given  them  to  Paul  before.  Nannie 
wants  him  to  spend  them  in  any  way  he  wishes, 
and  call  whatever  he  purchases  a  gift  from  her." 

Annie  opened  her  lips,  and  then  closed  them ; 
then  she  said :  "  Dear  sister,  how  kind  you  all 
are  to  us!  Paul  will  be  so  pleased  at  the 
thought."  She  glanced  at  the  money  with  a 
half -frightened,  apprehensive  look,  but  she  gave 
no  hint  that  she  did  not  want  Paul  to  have  it, 
because  of  her  fear  that  he  might  spend  it  ill; 
to  protect  him  by  such  a  confession  would  have 
been  an  insolence  to  the  real  Paul. 

Miss  Sarah  saw  the  change  in  her  face.  She 
did  not  understand  it,  but  the  old  resentment  at 
Annie's  husband  came  easily  back.  The  Pic 
ture?  "Well,  after  all,  it  's  better  to  live  your 
religion  than  paint  it,"  Miss  Sarah  reflected 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  89 

grudgingly,  and  she  decided  that,  for  her  part, 
she  believed  that  when  artists  and  writers  and 
persons  of  that  sort  put  their  religion  into  their 
work,  there  was  apt  to  be  very  little  of  it  left 
for  their  lives. 

The  two  women  sat  down  in  the  room  which 
was  used  as  a  sitting-room  as  well  as  a  kitchen, 
and  a  little  silence  fell  between  them.  Annie 
could  not  put  aside  the  fact  that  money  coming 
in  this  way,  outside  his  earnings,  —  an  extra, 
so  to  speak,  —  would  be  a  temptation  to  Paul. 
He  would  argue  that  if  he  spent  it  for  his  own 
diversion  —  Annie  knew  what  that  meant  —  they 
would  be  no  worse  but  possibly  better  off  than 
they  were  before.  Annie  smiled  at  the  childish 
ness  of  the  excuse ;  traits  like  these  had  devel 
oped  in  her  maternal  love  to  add  to  that  of  the 
wife  for  the  husband.  And  yet  she  would  not 
treat  him  like  a  child,  and  offer  to  the  man  the 
indignity  of  protection.  She  faced  all  the  pos 
sibilities,  and,  with  wonderful,  trembling  cour 
age,  said  to  herself  that  she  would  not,  by  any 
artifice  or  excuse,  hold  the  money  back. 

When  Paul  came  home,  he  was  still  vague 
and  abstracted.  He  had  little  to  say ;  but  the 
silence  of  a  bad-tempered  man  is  sometimes  felt 
to  be  tenderness  by  those  poor  souls  that  love 
him.  Miss  Sarah  said  to  herself  that  Paul  was 
"pleasant,"  and  she  tried  to  encourage  his 


90  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

mood  by  telling  him  that  Annie  had  taken  her 
into  his  work-room,  and  showed  her  —  Paul 
began  to  frown  —  "the  Picture.  And  I  think 
it  is  a  very  nice  picture,  Paul.  I  never  saw  it 
painted  in  just  that  way.  It  gave  me  quite  a 
different  idea  of  " 

"You  are  very  good,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"But  please  don't  speak  of  it." 

Annie  touched  the  hand  he  had  clinched  upon 
the  table,  —a  touch  that  said,  "Be  patient;  she 
does  not  understand." 

How  could  she  ?  How  should  her  simple  old 
heart  guess  that  comment  upon  the  painting  was 
like  a  touch  upon  an  open  eye  ?  that  his  Picture 
was  to  this  poor  convict  soul  a  vision  of  right 
eousness,  while  he  stood  at  judgment?  He 
could  not  bear  her  chatter.  He  listened  to  her 
praise  blackly,  opening  and  shutting  his  hand, 
and  gnawing  at  his  heavy  red  lip.  Once  or 
twice  he  said,  "You  are  very  good,  I  'm  sure." 
When  she  had  said  all  she  could,  but  reserved, 
with  a  twinge  of  conscience,  her  fear  that  the 
picture  was  popish,  she  ended  by  saying  that 
Nannie  had  sent  him  a  little  gift,  and  then  pro 
duced  the  two  gold  coins. 

Paul  took  them,  half  smiling,  and  lifting  his 
black  eyebrows.  "I'm  afraid  I've  been  a 
bear,"  he  said.  "Miss  Nannie  's  very  kind. 
Annie,  write  to  your  sister,  and  tell  her  she  's 
very  kind.  Do  you  hear?" 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  91 

"I  hope  you  will  get  something  you  like, 
Paul,  and  consider  it  Nannie's  gift,"  Miss  Sarah 
said. 

He  clinked  the  money  in  his  hand,  and 
laughed.  "Annie,  we  might  open  a  bank  ac 
count  with  this.  I  '11  tell  you !  You  shall  have 
a  new  dress,  and  another  pot  of  posies  for  your 
shelf.  Will  you  like  that?  I  will  go  and  buy 
them  to-morrow.  I  have  a  fancy  that  a  gray 
dress,  a  silvery  gray,  with  a  sheen  like  water 
on  it,  would  be  nice?  What  do  you  say?  " 

Miss  Sarah  was  lost  in  admiration.  She  saw 
herself  writing  home  of  Paul's  generosity. 
Annie  protested  that  it  would  be  pretty,  but  not 
useful.  Paul  laughed,  and  tossed  the  eagles, 
glittering,  into  the  air,  and  caught  them,  and 
stopped  to  examine  the  dates  with  a  singular 
intensity,  and  a  satisfaction  that  made  Miss 
Sarah  say  that  that  was  one  nice  thing  about 
gold,  no  matter  how  old  a  coin  was,  it  always 
seemed  bright  and  clean.  Annie  looked  at  Paul 
in  silence.  If  only  it  would  occur  to  him  to 
give  her  the  money  to  keep !  He  began  to  talk 
gayly,  and  with  animation  growing  in  his  face. 
He  said  Annie  ought  to  dress  better  than  she 
did,  and  that  living  in  this  poor  way  was  a  dis 
grace.  "  A  disgrace  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  ought 
to  be  doing  better." 

"We  are  doing  very  well,  Paul."     She  tried 


92  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

to  quiet  him.  "You  have  three  orders  ahead. 
We  must  not  try  to  get  rich  too  fast,"  she  ended, 
trying  to  make  her  words  light,  and  deeply, 
pitifully  significant,  at  once. 

He  laughed  at  the  supper,  and  said  that  her 
ring  and  water-cress  and  toast  and  tea  were  not 
enough  to  support  life. 

Miss  Sarah  had  never  seen  him  in  such  an 
agreeable  mood;  she  felt  that  her  praise  had 
brought  this  cheerfulness,  and  she  tried  to  en 
courage  it,  and  also  to  encourage  his  desire  for 
something  better.  "Dissatisfaction  is  very 
proper  when  a  man's  poverty  is  his  own  fault," 
Miss  Sarah  thought,  and  she  said  aloud  that  she 
thought  a  gray  dress  for  Annie  would  be  very 
nice,  although  perhaps  a  good  black  silk  would 
be  more  serviceable.  "It  makes  over  so  well," 
said  Miss  Sarah. 

"She  shall  have  both,"  Paul  answered, 
promptly. 

But  his  sister-in-law  was  disturbed  at  that, 
for  she  felt  sure  that  the  quality  of  neither 
would  be  very  good.  Still,  as  Emily  would 
have  said,  it  showed  a  good  spirit  in  Paul  to 
desire  to  spend  his  own  present  on  his  wife,  — 
a  spirit  that  matched  the  Picture,  Miss  Sarah 
thought,  much  pleased. 

She  had  never  seen  him  in  so  good  a  light, 
and  she  blamed  herself  for  having  been  blind  to 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  93 

his  merits  before.  "Not  but  what  he  has  some 
faults  which  we  deplore,"  she  wrote  to  her  sis 
ters;  "but  I  feel  we  have  been  too  severe  in  our 
thought  of  Paul."  She  told  them  about  the 
Picture ;  at  least  she  said  that  she  was  pleased 
that  Paul  should  have  turned  his  mind  to  serious 
things.  Then  she  spoke  of  his  good  intentions 
about  the  money,  and  gave  them  quite  an  ac 
count  of  the  amiable  way  in  which  he  had  once 
told  her  how  fond  Annie  was  of  her  flowers,  and 
how  foolish;  and  how  he  liked  to  bring  her  a 
growing  plant  once  in  a  while,  just  because  she 
was  such  a  goose  about  them. 

"Did  you  ever  see  Annie  wash  the  geranium 
leaves?"  he  had  said.  "She  takes  each  leaf  in 
her  hand,  and  holds  it,  and  washes  it  softly, 
with  a  sponge,  just  as  if  it  were  a  baby's  little 
palm.  I  believe  she  imagines  they  are  children, 
these  vegetables,  just  as  girls  play  that  their 
dolls  are  babies.  She  wouldn't  have  done  it  if 
that  young  one  of  ours  had  lived!"  He  had 
said  this  on  the  day  which  was  the  anniversary 
of  the  baby's  death.  It  had  seemed  to  Miss 
Sarah  one  of  those  careless  cruelties  of  coinci 
dence,  and  she  had  looked  with  quick  apprehen 
sion  at  Annie;  but  Annie's  face  showed  nothing 
but  tenderness  for  a  pain  that  was  trying  to  hide 
itself  beneath  such  pitiful  flippancy. 


94  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

VI. 

The  next  few  days  were  happy  ones  to  Miss 
Sarah.  Paul  was  "truly  agreeable,"  she  said 
to  herself,  with  that  apprehensive  appreciation 
which  is  felt  by  persons  whose  misfortune  it  is 
to  live  with  an  ill-tempered  man  or  woman. 
He  was  hard  at  work  upon  his  signs  again,  which 
pleased  Miss  Sarah  greatly.  "An  industrious 
person  is  not  apt  to  get  into  mischief,"  she  as 
sured  herself.  His  work  upon  his  picture  had 
seemed  to  her  too  much  of  the  nature  of  a  pas 
time.  "It  's  as  though  I  should  spend  my  time 
reading  my  Bible  instead  of  looking  after  my 
household,"  Miss  Sarah  reflected.  "It  's  a 
pious  work,  but  it  isn't  an  order;  and  to  spend 
much  time  upon  it  is  idling,  I  'm  afraid." 

So  she  was  glad  to  go  into  the  loft  and  watch 
him  as  he  sat  toiling  at  one  of  his  wooden  fig 
ures,  and  encourage  him  by  any  honest  praise 
which  she  could  speak.  Paul  seemed  pleased, 
she  thought,  that  she  was  so  appreciative;  he 
certainly  made  an  effort  to  induce  her  to  express 
her  opinions.  He  said,  with  perfect  gravity, 
that  he  "enjoyed  her  conversation,"  and  she 
blushed  at  the  compliment  like  a  girl. 

Miss  Sarah  was  troubled  that  Annie  showed 
so  little  interest  in  the  signs  and  in  what  Paul 
said  about  them,  and  that  made  her  all  the  more 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  95 

anxious  to  encourage  him.  So  each  day  while 
he  was  at  work  she  went  into  the  loft,  and 
though  she  glanced  sometimes  at  the  curtain 
across  the  farther  gable,  she  confined  her  atten 
tion  to  the  figures,  regarding  them  with  that 
timid  respect  which  modest  and  ignorant  persons 
have  for  anything  which  they  conceive  to  be  art. 
She  was  quite  blind  to  the  bad  amusement  in 
Paul's  face,  or  to  the  way  in  which  he  glanced 
sidewise  at  Annie  for  appreciation  of  the  humor 
of  the  situation.  He  was  almost  hilarious  in 
his  open  ridicule,  which  the  tender  old  heart 
never  suspected. 

On  one  especial  morning  he  told  her  that  he 
had  planned  a  figure  of  America,  which  was  to 
hold  the  flag  of  the  Union,  as  well  as  a  box  of 
cigars ;  but  he  said  that  he  was  not  sure  how  the 
flag  ought  to  hang  over  the  arm  of  the  figure, 
and  he  wondered  whether  Miss  Sarah  would  be 
willing  to  hold  it  for  him  a  moment.  Miss 
Sarah  flushed  with  the  pleasure  of  being  of  use. 
She  stood,  very  erect  and  proud,  while  he  draped 
the  flag  across  her  arm,  and  let  its  folds  fall  upon 
her  straight  black  gown.  She  bent  her  mild 
face  down  to  look  at  it,  so  that  the  tabs  of  her 
lace  cap  touched  her  faded  cheeks;  her  eyes 
dimmed  a  little,  but  she  smiled.  She  said  that 
she  knew  what  the  flag  meant  better  than  An 
nie  and  Paul  did ;  they  probably  could  not  re 
member  much  of  the  war. 


96  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

"I  feel  very  patriotic  to  be  a  flag-bearer," 
said  Miss  Sarah,  smiling  at  her  little  joke,  and 
sure  of  Paul's  sympathy. 

Annie  cried  out  sharply,  when  she  saw  her 
sister  standing  there  among  the  images,  her  dear 
old  face  beaming  with  gratification  in  being  use 
ful,  and  with  honor  for  the  symbol  across  her 
arm.  "Oh,  Paul,  don't!  "  she  said.  The  glit 
ter  of  cruel  amusement  in  his  eyes  and  Sarah's 
sweet  unconsciousness  hurt  her  like  a  stab.  "I 
wish  you  wouldn't,  Paul,"  she  said  faintly; 
and  then  she  went  down  the  room,  leaving  her 
husband  and  sister  under  the  skylight,  among 
the  tobacco  signs,  and  touched  the  end  of  the 
curtain,  holding  it  in  a  quick,  trembling  grasp, 
as  one  afraid,  in  the  darkness,  seizes  the  hand 
of  a  friend.  She  never  felt  the  need  of  that 
assurance  quite  as  she  did  when  she  saw  Paul 
cruel  to  Sarah.  To  have  been  cruel  to  herself 
was  nothing;  a  man's  unkindness  to  his  wife 
may  be  only  a  lack  of  thought  of  himself.  When 
she  went  back  to  the  artist  and  his  model,  her 
face  was  pale,  and  she  breathed  as  one  who  has 
struggled,  but  there  was  courage  in  her  eyes. 

"You  must  n't  do  this  to  Sarah,  Paul,"  she 
said;  and  in  spite  of  her  sister's  protest,  she 
took  the  flag  away.  "You  are  tired,  dear  sister; 
it 's  very  tiring  to  pose.  Come;  let  us  go  back 
to  our  work." 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  97 

But  Paul  said  quickly:  "There!  Annie! 
Don't  move;  you've  put  your  hand  just  as  I 
want  it  for  that  America.  Hold  it  so  a  minute, 
will  you?  Miss  Sarah,  hand  me  that  charcoal 
and  drawing-board.  There !  behind  you  !  Oh, 
damn!  not  that.  Have  you  no  eyes?  There, 
Annie;  keep  it  just  that  way." 

Miss  Sarah,  flustered  and  appalled,  stood  be 
side  her  sister,  uncertain  what  to  do  or  say. 
Annie  smiled.  "When  Paul  wants  to  draw, 
sister,  he  forgets  his  manners.  He  '11  be  through 
in  a  minute,  and  then  we'll  go  back  to  our 
work." 

Paul  was  not  disturbed  by  the  explanation. 
He  drew  rapidly  for  a  minute,  in  bold,  vigorous 
strokes,  and  then  he  stopped,  holding  his  char 
coal  poised  and  frowning  to  himself,  and  rose, 
and  adjusted  Annie's  fingers.  As  he  did  it  his 
face  changed,  and  the  intent  look  faded.  "Oh, 
Annie!  your  little  fingers,"  he  said;  he  put  his 
own  hand  upon  his  lips,  because  they  quivered 
like  a  woman's,  and  then  he  took  hers  and  laid 
it  against  his  breast,  fondling  it,  and  saying: 
"Oh,  Annie,  Annie,  your  hand  stabs  me;  it 
stabs  me  !  How  worn  it  is  !  how  thin  it  is ! 
Annie,  it  stabs  me!"  And  then  he  kissed  it 
passionately. 

The  love  and  pity  in  her  face  seemed  to  reach 
out  to  the  poor  soul  struggling  to  escape  from 


98  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

the  prison  of  his  temperament,  seemed  to  touch 
and  grasp  him  like  two  strong,  welcoming,  com 
pelling  hands.  It  was  as  though  Patience  and 
Certainty  comforted  him. 

As  for  Miss  Sarah,  she  had  not  waited  to 
hear  Annie's  answer.  She  held  her  head  very 
straight,  though  she  felt  her  knees  tremble  as 
she  walked  away.  Paul  had  sworn  at  her !  A 
fine  indignation  lighted  her  old  face.  "That 
—  person,  to  use  such  words  in  our  presence  !" 
she  thought.  She  went  back  to  the  other  room, 
and  took  up  her  bit  of  sewing;  but  her  needle 
glanced  and  slipped,  her  fingers  were  so  un 
steady. 

Paul  had  the  grace  to  apologize  when  he  came 
to  tea,  and  Miss  Sarah,  immediately,  and  with 
dismay,  perceived  her  anger  melting  into  for 
giveness.  But  that  night  she  lay  awake  a  long 
time,  trying  to  understand  him.  How  rude  and 
cruel  he  was ;  how  bad  his  temper ;  how  dissi 
pated  and  profane  he  seemed  to  be.  But  over 
and  over  the  Picture  contradicted  these  things 
in  her  mind,  —  "a  reUf/ious  picture,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

Miss  Sarah  might  not  guess  all  that  Paul  had 
painted  into  that  Face  upon  the  wall,  might  not 
feel  that  his  soul  was  there,  his  sin,  his  shame, 
his  everlasting  hope,  all  that  makes  religion  to 
the  man ;  but  the  subject  told  her  that  it  was  a 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  99 

religious  picture.  In  her  own  way,  using  sim 
ple  &words,  with  deep  and  dear  old-fashioned 
terms,  such  as,  "Has  he  ever  had  a  change  of 
heart?  "  "Has  he  really  come  to  his  Saviour?  " 
she  questioned  the  mysteries  of  a  human  soul. 

She  could  not  sleep,  but  lay  listening  for  his 
step  with  an  ache  of  apprehension.  But  when 
he  came  in,  about  midnight,  he  walked  steadily, 
and  she  heard  him  say  to  Annie:  "The  luck  's 
come;  it's  come!  It  will  be  all  right  now; 
everything  will  be  all  right.  Don't  worry,  An 
nie."  And  Miss  Sarah's  fear  relaxed  into  tired 

sleep. 

The  next  day  he  showed  a  new  side  of  his 
character  to  his  sister-in-law,  —  a  light,  sweet- 
tempered  gayety,  full  of  small  passionate  ten 
dernesses  to  Annie  and  simple  kindliness  to 
Miss  Sarah  herself.  Annie  was  silent,  almost 
to  moodiness ;  she  did  not  seem  interested  in  his 
continued  assertions  that  he  meant  to  bring  her 
a  present.  Miss  Sarah  could  not  understand 
her.  She  made  brave  efforts  to  rouse  her  sister 
to  her  duty  by  herself  showing  sympathy  in  all 
Paul  said,  and  by  one  or  two  mild,  reproachful 
glances  at  Annie. 

"You  bought  Annie's  present,"  she  said, 
when  he  came  home  to  supper.  "That 's  very 
kind  in  you.  You  '11  be  so  pleased,  won't  you, 
Annie,  my  dear?" 


100  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

"You  shall  see  it  after  tea,"  he  promised  her. 
"Annie,  try  and  eat.  Do  eat  this;  I  got  it  for 
you." 

But  Annie  shook  her  head,  and  Miss  Sarah 
felt  really  quite  displeased  with  her. 

After  supper  Paul  brought  out  a  package  and 
opened  it.  "Annie,  do  look;  please  look,"  he 
said.  "I  chose  it  for  you.  I  thought  you'd 
look  so  pretty  in  it." 

He  shook  out  the  gray  folds,  cool  as  moon 
light  upon  dark  ice,  and  shimmering  in  the 
lamplight  with  soft  and  beautiful  sheen. 

"I  bought  it  out  of  the  two  eagles,"  he  said 
significantly.  "I  assure  you  I  did.  I  mean  I 
used  just  that  amount,  and  I  have  more  left. 
Miss  Sarah,  Miss  Nannie's  present  has  grown 
like  the  five  talents.  I  —  I  invested  it,  and 
more  than  doubled  it ;  a  good  deal  more  !  Now 
I  'm  going  to  give  almost  all  of  it  to  you,  and 
get  you  to  go  out  and  buy  some  things  for 
Annie.  She  won't  do  it  herself." 

Miss  Sarah's  quick  delight  could  scarcely 
find  words.  "I've  always  said  gentlemen  un 
derstood  managing  money  so  much  better  than 
ladies.  Just  fancy,  dear  Annie,  —  doubled  it  ! 
Annie,  my  dear,  you  should  not  be  so  dull 
when  your  husband  has  been  successful.  Pray 
tell  me  how  you  did  it,  Paul.  I  almost  think 
I  should  like  to  do  something  of  the  kind  with 


THE  FACE  OJT  THE'  WALL 

our  money;  except,  of  course,  situated  as  we 
are,  we  can  have  only  the  safest  and  most  con 
servative  investments.  And  our  money  is  all 
in  trust,  too,  as  you  know." 

Annie  had  gone  into  her  bedroom  for  some 
thing,  and  did  not  hear  Paul's  explanation  that 
he  had  doubled  his  money  on  a  principle  often 
used  by  churches.  He  would  tell  her  about  it 
some  time,  he  said;  and  the  laughter  kindled 
again  in  his  eyes,  but  died  when  Annie  came 
back.  Then  he  lifted  the  silk  and  held  the  soft 
gray  folds  up  in  this  light  and  that,  and  called 
on  them  for  admiration,  which  Miss  Sarah  gave 
unstintingly,  glad  to  put  aside  for  a  moment  a 
misgiving  that  those  words  about  "doubling" 
his  money  began,  as  she  thought  them  over,  to 
arouse. 

Paul  laid  the  silk  across  Annie's  shoulder, 
arranging  it  so  that  it  fell  straight  and  _  gleam 
ing  to  the  floor.  She  stood  sidewise,  her  dark 
head  drooping  on  her  breast  ;  the  long  shining 
line  of  the  silk,  from  the  nape  of  her  neck  to 
her  finger-tips  and  back  to  her  heel,  was  full 
of  stately  grace.  Her  husband  looked  at  her 
keenly,  with  the  pleasure  of  the  artist  in  what 
is  beautiful;  not  the  more  human  pleasure  of 
appreciative  affection.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
he  saw  the  war  between  the  soft  shimmer  of  the 
gray  silk  and  Annie's  worn  complexion,  and 


T.HE  I-'tCE:  ON  THE  WALL. 

said:   "Annie,    where 's    your   color?     You're 
too  old  for  gray  !  " 

The  little  period  of  prosperity  lasted  nearly 
a  week.  Paul  did  not  work  upon  tlie  signs,  and 
no  mention  was  ever  made  of  the  Picture.  He 
went  out  early  in  the  morning,  and  came  back 
at  supper-time;  he  was  sober,  but  with  a  curi 
ous  gayety  about  him,  and  the  wandering,  smil 
ing  eye  which  belongs  to  the  man  who  drinks 
not  quite  enough  to  lose  his  head.  Sometimes 
he  offered  Annie  money,  which  she  with  sad 
patience  refused.  Once  she  said,  "You  know 
I  won't  have  any  part  in  it,  Paul." 

Miss  Sarah  wondered  a  little  at  Paul's  for 
bearance,  for  she  had  waited  a  cpivering  instant 
for  an  outburst,  and  none  had  come.  He  had 
not  met  Annie's  eye  when  she  answered  him  ; 
the  strange  vulgarity  of  his  temper  seemed 
cowed.  He  had  the  look  of  cringing  away  from 
a  lash  that  never  fell.  Yet  all  the  while  he  was 
elate  and  triumphant,  as  though  a  secret  which 
he  would  not  share  filled  him  with  self -congratu 
lation.  Miss  Sarah,  puzzling  over  the  change 
in  Annie,  suddenly  remembered,  with  a  start 
of  dismay,  that  speech  about  "doubling  the 
money;  "  could  it  be  that  Paul  — gambled? 

At  first  this  solution  of  the  puzzle  was  too 
terrible  to  contemplate,  but  little  by  little  she 
had  to  meet  it  and  accept  it.  Then  her  one 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  103 

thought  was  to  get  away.  How  could  she  eat 
his  bread  ?  How  could  she  sleep  under  his  roof  ? 
For  a  little  while  she  had  the  strange  experience 
of  thinking  of  Annie,  not  as  her  child  and  sis 
ter,  but  as  Paul's  wife,  and  feeling  a  certain 
repulsion  for  them  both.  But  this,  of  course, 
did  not  last.  She  could  have  nothing  but  ten 
derness  for  her  child ;  only  —  she  must  go  home  ! 
She  would  go  on  Saturday,  she  said,  though  that 
was  a  week  earlier  than  she  had  planned  to 
return  to  Mercer.  Her  dismay  was  so  absorb 
ing  that  she  did  not  notice  that  Annie  made  no 

o 

effort  to  induce  her  to  remain. 

But  Miss  Sarah  had  to  admit  that,  as  she  drew 
away  from  him,  Paul  grew  more  agreeable.  He 
was  very  gentle  to  Annie,  gentler  than  at  any 
time  during  this  unhappy  visit.  He  bought 
her  a  bottle  of  wine  because  she  looked  so  pale, 
and  half  promised  that  he  would  take  her  to 
Mercer  for  August. 

"Traveling  costs,  but  money  's  no  object," 
he  said.  "We  can  afford  it  better  now  than 
at  any  time  since  we  've  been  married,  thanks 
to  Miss  Nannie." 

But  by  Wednesday  this  mood  had  passed. 
He  was  distrait,  and  plainly  full  of  anxiety. 
"It's  got  to  turn,"  he  told  Annie;  "it's  got 
to.  You  '11  have  to  give  me  what  money  you 
have.  If  you  don't,  I  '11  borrow  it  from  your 


104  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

sister.  Don't  talk!  don't  talk!  It's  done; 
what 's  the  use  of  talking?  "  They  were  in  the 
loft,  and  Annie  gave  an  apprehensive  glance  at 
the  door,  lest  Miss  Sarah,  with  her  persistent 
sympathy,  should  chance  to  enter.  "A  man 
will  come  for  the  signs,"  Paul  went  on.  "Yes, 
I  lost  them;  I  lost  them.  Don't  look  at  me 
that  way  !  I  '11  get  them  again.  Have  you 
any  money?  " 

"  Only  this,  Paul ;  and  I  must  keep  it.  Oh, 
don't  take  it !  Oh,  how  can  I  bear  it?  Paul, 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  bear  it !  " 

He  took  the  money  roughly,  and  then  came 
back  to  her  where  she  stood,  her  hands  over  her 
face,  beside  the  figure  of  the  sailor.  There  was 
no  sound  for  a  moment  but  her  broken  breath 
and  the  pattering  of  the  rain  on  the  long  sky 
light  in  the  roof;  the  afternoon  had  darkened, 
and  in  the  half-light  of  the  dusky  room  the 
wooden  figures  seemed  to  smile  at  each  other 
with  their  painted  eyes. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Annie,"  he  said  miserably; 
"  I  can't  help  it  !  My  God,  don't  you  see,  it  is 
I?  I  can't  help  it.  And  you'll  have  your 
quarterly  allowance  next  week;  but  I  '11  have 
this  and  more  back  by  to-night.  And  this  shall 
be  the  last  time.  I  tell  you  it  shall  be  the  last 
time.  Annie,  we  '11  go  away  then ;  just  let  me 
get  enough  back  to  pay  for  moving.  And  I 


THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL.  105 

must  get  these  signs  again.  I  've  got  to  take 
your  little  money  so  as  to  get  the  signs;  don't 
you  see?  Annie  !  Annie  !  Oh,  my  God  !  why 
am  I  alive?" 

VII. 

"Paul  is  late,  Annie?" 

"Yes." 

"Shall  you  keep  his  supper  warm  for  him 
any  longer,  my  dear?" 

"No;  at  least,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I'd 
better.  What  time  is  it?  " 

Annie's  restlessness  brought  a  spot  of  color 
into  her  cheek;  her  breath  came  quickly;  a 
dozen  times  she  opened  the  door  into  the  entry 
and  listened. 

All  the  day  before  Paul  had  been  away,  com 
ing  home  at  dusk  for  an  hour,  his  face  feverish 
with  anxiety;  again,  to-day,  he  started  out 
early  in  the  morning,  and  now  it  was  after  ten 
and  he  had  not  returned. 

"But  ten  o'clock  is  really  not  very  late  — 
for  a  man,  my  dear,"  Miss  Sarah  assured  her 
sister.  She  could  not  understand  Annie's  anxi 
ety,  which  was  painfully  evident ;  and  not  un 
derstanding  it,  she  felt  rebuffed  and  shut  out. 
But  she  was  too  pitiful  to  be  hurt,  and  too 
ignorantly  trustful  to  realize  how  entirely  a 
stranger  to  her  was  this  harassed  and  haggard 


106  THE  FACE  CLY   THE  WALL. 

woman  who,  with  eyes  full  of  the  terrible  in 
difference  of  pain,  was  mechanically  answering 
all  her  little  questions  and  comments.  But 
Annie  realized  it.  The  effort  of  these  past 
few  weeks  to  be  all  that  was  sweet  and  dutiful 
to  the  sister  who  had  taken  her  mother's  place, 
had  suddenly  betrayed  itself  to  her  as  an  effort. 
She  looked  at  Sarah  once  or  twice,  wondering 
dully  whether  her  sister  saw  how  easily  the 
form  of  affection,  the  habit  of  the  old  life, 
slipped  off  when  a  reality  claimed  her.  She 
had  that  terrible  experience  of  gazing  at  the 
familiar  face  opposite  her,  and  realizing  that, 
despite  endearing  terms,  despite  a  sacred  past, 
she  and  it  were  strangers. 

O 

She  wished  passionately  to  be  alone.  While 
Miss  Sarah  sat  sewing  by  the  lamp,  comment 
ing  now  and  then  on  this  or  that  bit  of  news  in 
the  evening  paper,  looking  at  her  with  a  dis 
tressed  pity,  sighing,  even,  her  dear  old  face 
tremulous  with  love,  Annie  could  not  give  way 
to  her  anxiety.  Once  she  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  two  rooms,  but  Miss  Sarah's  en 
treaties  that  she  should  sit  down  and  rest  were 
harder  to  bear  than  her  own  restlessness.  Af 
ter  eleven  her  sister's  presence  grew  intolerable. 

"You  are  going  to  travel  to-morrow,  sister, 
so  you  really  must  go  to  bed  now.  I  '11  tell 
Paul  you  wanted  to  sit  up  and  say  good-night, 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  107 

but  I  wouldn't  let  you.     Oh,  go  — go!    Oh  — 
I  —  I   didn't  mean   to  be   impatient,   but   you 
must  not  sit  up  any  longer." 

Miss  Sarah  protested,  but  went.  It  seemed 
strange  to  her  that  Annie  preferred  to  be  alone 
when  she  could  have  company. 

"I  hope  she  knows  I'd  have  gone  into  my 
room,  so  as  not  to  see  him,  if  —  if  he  was  over 
come,"  she  thought,  a  little  hurt  at  Annie's  ap 
parent  distrust  of  her  delicacy.  She  went  to  bed, 
but  she  could  not  sleep ;  she  lay  there  with  an  ache 
of  pity  in  her  heart  that  trembled  into  prayer. 
She  said  to  herself  those  words  that  some  time 
or  other  falter  on  every  human  lip,  —  "  The 
Lord's  providences  are  very  mysterious!"  and 
then  the  questioning  wonder:  Why  had  He 
not  taken  Paul,  instead  of  that  precious  baby? 
How  happy  they  would  have  been  by  this  time 
if  He  had  but  seen  fit  to  do  what  human  wis 
dom  so  plainly  approved.  Annie  would  have 
come  home  to  live,  and  by  and  by  she  would 
have  grown  resigned  ;  and  how  the  sisters  would 
have  loved  the  child  !  "  And  we  would  have 
brought  it  up  so  carefully,"  sighed  Miss  Sa 
rah.  But  instead,  Paul  had  lived,  —  had  lived 
to  break  Annie's  heart  by  his  drinking  and 
his  gambling  and  his  rude  temper.  She  said 
to  herself  that  even  though  it  was  terrible  to 
go  and  leave  Annie  with  him,  she  could  not 


108  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

help  feeling  the  relief  of  getting  out  of  his 
house.  "His  food  chokes  me  !"  she  thought, 
violently.  She  could  hear  Annie  pacing  up 
and  down,  and  called  out  to  her  once  to  go  and 
rest  ;  but  Annie  answered  that  she  was  just 
going  to  open  the  door  a  moment  and  listen; 
she  thought  Paul  must  be  home  soon.  She  did 
listen ;  she  went  out  into  the  hall,  and,  leaning 
on  the  balustrade,  looked  down  the  spiral  of  the 
staircase.  A  window  closed  with  a  clatter  on 
the  floor  below  her;  the  wind  sighed  somewhere; 
down  in  the  lower  hall  there  was  a  noisy  burst 
of  laughter  and  a  good-natured  scuffle.  The 
gas  jet,  from  a  thin  iron  arm  that  crooked  out 
of  the  whitewashed  wall  where  the  stairs  curved, 
flared  in  some  mounting  draught. 

Annie,  listening,  leaned  her  head  against  the 
wall.  She  wondered  if  in  all  these  years  the 
old  house  had  held  a  pain  like  her  pain.  Most 
people  have  this  thought  once  in  their  lives,  at 
least.  The  house  was  a  hundred  years  old,  she 
had  been  told;  time  enough  for  Sorrow  to  have 
gone  up  and  down  these  stairs  many  times.  She 
wondered  if  any  other  woman  had  leaned  her 
head  against  the  wall,  dumb  with  pain.  Death 
had  stricken  human  love  here  many  times,  but 
what  was  death?  She  wondered  how  it  would 
seem  to  her  if  Paul  died?  She  would  feel  his 
freedom  from  the  fetter  of  his  temperament,- 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  109 

feel  it  like  a  full  breath  !  And  then  she  started, 
with  that  curious  misgiving  that  is  a  sort  of 
superstition,  —  the  fear  of  her  own  thoughts. 
She  went  back  to  look  at  the  clock.  It  was 
after  one.  A  little  later,  Miss  Sarah,  dozing, 
heard  a  noise,  and  started  up,  crying  out  to 
know  what  was  the  matter. 

"I  am  a  little  worried  about  Paul.  I  am 
going  out  to  meet  him.  There  's  nothing  the 
matter,  but  I  must  go  and  meet  him." 

"Go  out!  "  said  Miss  Sarah,  standing  in  her 
doorway,  a  gaunt,  anxious  apparition,  "Annie, 
my  child  !  at  this  time  of  night?  Why,  what 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I'll  be  back  soon,  I'll  be  back  soon,"  she 
said  mechanically.  She  was  putting  on  her 
bonnet  with  intent  haste. 

"Oh,  Annie,  Paul  would  not  wish  it.  At 
night,  you  —  on  the  street!  My  dear,  I  must 
go  with  you.  I  cannot  allow—  Paul  would 
never  forgive  —  Why,  Annie,  it 's  nearly 
two,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Sister,  if  he  comes  in,  be  sure  not  to  let  him 
go  out  again." 

"Annie,  Annie,  come  back!"  Miss  Sarah 
called,  in  quavering  remonstrance.  But  Annie 
had  gone. 

Miss  Sarah  could  do  nothing  but  look  down 
the  stairs  after  her,  and  then  go  back  to  her 


110  THE  FACE  ON   THE  WALL. 

room.  She  sighed,  and  the  tears  stung  in  her 
eyes.  She  was  very  much  frightened,  but  not 
so  much  so  as  she  might  have  been  had  she  not 
taken  literally  Annie's  words  that  she  was  going 
to  meet  Paul.  She  thought  that  meant  that 
Annie  knew  just  where  to  find  him,  and  that 
they  would  return  together  immediately.  Still 
she  was  greatly  disturbed.  Annie  was  out,  at 
night,  alone,  alarmed  about  her  husband ! 
Annie,  her  child,  whom  she  had  guarded  and 
loved  so  tenderly  that  she  would  not  have  had 
her  know  that  such  pain  could  be  in  life  !  She 
wondered  how  she  could  ever  tell  the  girls  the 
truth  about  Paul.  How  could  she  tell  them  of 
his  dissipation,  of  the  way  in  which  Nannie's 
money  had  gone?  Sitting  here  alone  in  the 
kitchen,  her  resentment  burned  too  hot  for 
tears.  After  a  while  she  tried  to  read,  for  her 
eyes  were  growing  heavy,  and  she  must  not  be 
asleep  in  case  Annie,  by  any  chance,  should 
come  in  before  Paul;  but  the  letters  ran  to 
gether  in  a  mist.  "Dear  me!  this  will  never 
do,"  said  Miss  Sarah;  and  got  up,  and  began 
to  move  about  the  room,  but  stopped,  thinking 
she  heard  Annie's  step.  There  was  the  heavy 
roll  of  a  carriage  in  the  street,  and  then  the 
clock  struck  two;  but  the  house  was  silent. 
Every  moment  she  fancied  she  must  hear  them 
coming  upstairs  together.  She  was  a  little 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  Ill 

chilly,  a  little  nervous  here  alone.  The  weight 
of  grief  for  Annie's  grief  oppressed  her  too 
much  even  for  prayer.  She  would  let  her  eyes 
close  for  just  a  moment,  she  thought. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been 
asleep  when  there  came  a  leaping  step  upon  the 
stairs,  a  run  through  the  entry,  and  then  the 
door  opened  with  a  burst,  and  Paul  leaned, 
gasping,  upon  the  knob. 
"Annie?" 

Miss  Sarah,  her  eyes  blurred  with  sleep, 
stammered  something. 

Then  he  groaned  aloud  and  threw  up  his 
hands.  "  Tell  her  I  lost  —  it.  But  I  stabbed 
him :  he  shall  not  have  it !  Tell  her  —  I  loved 
her.  Tell  her  —  tell  her  there  's  only  this  one 
thing  I  can  do.  Oh,  she  '11  understand  - 
she  '11  understand  "  He  stopped  with  a  curi 
ous  cry,  and  turned  and  ran,  crouching,  across 
the  entry  to  the  loft. 

Sarah  Murray  stood  staring  at  the  open  door, 
seeing  her  own  shadow  nicker  on  the  wall,  hear 
ing  down  in  the  street  a  song  trailing  into  si 
lence,  as  some  light-hearted  reveler  went  on 
into  the  night. 

"Paul  has  stabbed  some  one?  Paul?  An 
nie's  husband  has"  She  did  not  under 
stand  ;  she  was  faint  for  a  moment.  What  did 
it  mean?  " He  has  lost  'it.'  What?  He  has 


112  THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

been  gambling  again  !  "  In  the  whirl  of  con 
fusion  she  never  thought  of  the  Picture;  only 
one  word  stood  out  clearly.  Paul  had  stabbed 
some  one. 

Then  her  strength  came  to  her,  and  she  went 
out,  across  to  the  loft  door,  and  knocked,  and 
said :  "  Paul  —  I  —  don't  understand.  Paul !  " 

But  there  was  no  answer,  and  in  a  panic  she 
fled  back  again,  and  even  locked  the  door,  in 
sudden,  unnamed  terror.  But  she  sat  beside 
it  to  be  ready  to  slip  the  bolt  for  Annie.  She 
had  not  long  to  wait. 

Miss  Sarah  never  knew  how  she  said  what 
she  had  to  say,  with  what  terror  and  loathing 
she  repeated  Paul's  words  to  his  wife,  — Annie 
standing,  just  as  Paul  had  stood,  clinging  to  the 
door-knob,  gazing  at  her  in  wide-eyed  silence. 
Few  words,  each  falling  on  the  heart  like  a  drop 
of  anguish.  As  she  spoke,  she  tried  with  trem 
bling  old  hands  to  lead  her  sister  into  the  room, 
but  Annie  broke  away  without  a  word.  Sarah 
followed  her,  and  then  stopped',  and  went  back 
and  hid  her  face.  But  that  was  only  for  a  mo 
ment. 

The  entry  was  dark,  save  for  the  blue  flare 
of  the  gas  that  made  a  nimbus  of  light  around 
Annie,  kneeling  against  the  loft  door.  When 
Miss  Sarah,  sobbing,  knelt  down  beside  her, 
Annie  did  not  seem  to  see  her, 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.      113 

"Paul,  I  am  here.  Paul!  Tell  me  the 
truth." 

Miss  Sarah  could  not  hear  his  answer,  but 
Annie  heard  it. 

There  was  silence  ior  the  space  of  a  heart 
beat,  and  then  Annie  lifted  herself,  crying  to 
him  hoarsely  to  let  her  come  in.  "Oh,  Paul, 
I  love  you  —  let  me  come  in.  I  love  you  —  I 
love  you—  Paul,  let  me  come  in.  I  didn't 
doubt.  Only  —  I  —  I  couldn't  breathe  for  a 
moment.  Let  me  in,  Paul !  "  But  there  was 
no  sound.  "Paul,  Paul,  I  love  you.  Only  — 
for  an  instant  —  I  could  not  speak.  I  love  you. 
Let  me  come  in  !  " 

But  he  did  not  answer.  Sarah  called  to  him 
once,  for  God's  sake,  to  speak  to  Annie;  but 
there  was  silence. 

How  still  the  city  seemed  in  that  breathless 
hour  before  daybreak  !  The  white  cold  dawn 
brought  a  sigh  from  the  sleeping  streets.  A 
wandering  sound  crept  now  and  then  through 
the  house.  A  door  opened  and  closed;  and 
then  everything  was  still  again. 

Pauljiad  spoken  twice.  Miss  Sarah  did  not 
come  near  enough  to  hear  that  terrible  confi- 

O 

deuce  between  husband  and  wife.  After  it, 
Annie  did  not  cry  out  to  be  allowed  to  enter; 
she  only  spoke  to  him  sometimes,  gently,  with 
ineffable  tenderness,  in  some  soft  caress  of 


114  TI1E  FACE  ON  THE  WALL. 

words,  as  a  mother  speaks  to  a  child.  They 
heard  him  move  away  from  the  door  once,  and 
then  came  a  strange  sound,  as  of  canvas  be 
ing  cut  or  torn.  And  Paul's  wife  lifted  her 
face  with  terrible  assent  aijd  understanding. 

A  little  after  dawn  the- men  came  to  take  him. 
Annie  stood  up,  her  arm  across  the  door,  the 
other  hand  entreating  the  officers  to  pause. 

"Paul,  let  me  in  first!"  she  called  once, 
with  an  agonized  voice.  There  was  no  answer. 

O 

Then  she  moved  aside  to  let  one  of  the  officers 
put  his  shoulder  against  the  door,  which  bent 
and  quivered,  but  held,  and  then  crashed  in. 

Then  she  touched  the  man  on  the  arm. 
"Wait.  I  must  go  first.  There  is  no  other 
door  than  this.  Wait."  She  seemed  uncon 
scious  that  they  followed  her  into  the  room,  and 
then  paused,  huddled  in  a  startled  group  in  the 
doorway.  There  was  no  need  for  them  to  guard 
against  his  possible  escape. 

There  was  no  sound.  The  dawn  lay  white 
under  the  skylight,  —  upon  the  motley  fig 
ures  ;  upon  a  candle,  still  burning  with  a  pallid 
flame  ;  upon  the  long  heap  of  the  fallen  curtain, 
and  upon  the  defaced  and  ruined  Picture  on  the 
wall.  The  men  bared  their  heads,  and  one 
looked  away,  and  another  swore,  and  one  turned 
faint.  They  watched  her  as  she  knelt  down 
and  took  him  in  her  arms.  "Yes,  yes,  I  un- 


THE  FACE  ON  THE  WALL.  115 

derstand,"  she  seemed  to  assure  the  still  face. 
And  then  she  lifted  her  own,  shining  with  a  sol 
emn  elation,  and  looked  at  the  place  where  the 
Picture  had  been.  Her  justification  spurned 
words.  His  mute  lips  told  of  the  warfare  of 
his  soul  against  his  body;  the  ruin  on  the  wall 
said  divine  things.  She  had  no  need  to  speak. 
And  cradling  the  poor  dishonored  head  upon 
her  breast,  she  kissed  his  lips. 

And   then    content   made  reverent   way   for 
grief. 


ELIZABETH. 

I. 

MR.  THOMAS  SAYRE  had  a  very  disagreeable 
moment  when  he  learned  that  his  mother  had 
chosen  to  rent  to  an  artist  the  top  floor  of  her 
old  house  in  Bulfinch  Court. 

"You  had  no  business  to  let  her  do  such  a 
thing,  without  first  telling  me,"  he  said  sharply 
to  his  sister.  "Mother  only  had  to  speak,  and 
I  'd  have  given  her  all  the  money  she  wanted." 

"But  mother  never  would  speak,  you  know, 
Tom,"  Elizabeth  Sayre  answered  gently;  "and 
it  scarcely  seemed  necessary,  either,  for  you 
knew  exactly  how  much  her  income  was  lessened 
when  the  bank  failed." 

"Well,  suppose  I  did?  I  didn't  think  — I 
mean,  I  didn't  realize"  He  paused.  His 
sister  did  not  reply,  but  her  silence  was  signifi 
cant.  "You  ought  to  have  reminded  me,"  he 
ended  sullenly. 

And  indeed  there  was  some  excuse  for  his 
annoyance.  He  had  come  home  on  his  first 
visit,  after  an  absence  of  several  years  abroad, 


ELIZABETH.  117 

bringing  with  him  his  pretty  daughter  Fanny, 
and  anxious  to  give  his  mother  some  of  the  over 
flowing  satisfaction  of  his  own  life ;  and,  as  he 
told  his  wife  afterward,  "this  lodger,  this  artist 
fellow,  met  me  in  the  hall,  and  was  going  to 
do  the  honors  of  the  house  !  A  lodger  showing1 

O  O 

me  into  my  own  home,  if  you  please  !  Mother 
had  not  had  my  dispatch,  and  so  was  not  look 
ing  for  me." 

He  had  scarcely  waited  for  his  mother's  kiss 
before  he  asked  the  meaning  of  the  stranger's 
presence ;  and  then  he  stored  up  the  vials  of  his 
wrath,  to  pour  them  upon  his  sister's  head, 
when,  later  in  the  evening,  they  should  be  alone. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  an  uncomfortable 
pause,  "it  's  lucky  I  'm  here  now  and  can  put 
a  stop  to  it.  How  long  has  it  been  going  on?  " 

"Mr.  Hamilton  has  been  here  four  years" 

"He  wouldn't  be  here  four  minutes,"  Mr. 
Sayre  interposed  viciously,  "if  I  could  have 
my  way.  But  I  suppose  I  can't  turn  him  out 
without  some  notice.  Well,  I  '11  arrange  it. 
I  '11  see  him  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

o  o 

Oh,  I'll  be  civil  to  him,  Lizzie;  you  needn't 
be  worried.  Keally,  I  don't  blame  the  man  ;  I 
blame  you.  My  mother's  house  turned  into  a 
lodging-house  —  it 's  outrageous  to  think  that 
neither  you  nor  aunt  Susan  wrote  me  about  it !  " 
He  glanced  around  the  room  with  indignant 


118  ELIZABETH. 

pride.  The  suggestion  of  a  lodger  did  seem 
out  of  place.  And  yet,  could  Mr.  Sayre  have 
known  it,  the  greater  number  of  the  houses  on 
Bulfinch  Court  had  gradually  fallen  to  such 
cheap  ends.  They  kept  their  dignity,  however, 
in  spite  of  their  changed  fortunes;  and  they 
had  that  air  of  accommodating  themselves  to 
circumstances  with  calm  indifference,  which  is 
as  characteristic  of  houses  with  a  past  as  it  is 
of  people.  Possibly  these  old  residences  not 
only  endured,  but  were  even  a  trifle  amused  at 
the  changing  human  life  which  came  and  went 
through  their  wide  halls,  and  below  the  carved 
white  lintels  of  the  front  doors. 

Admiral  Bent's  house,  just  opposite  the 
Sayres',  sheltered  dapper  young  clerks  now  in 
its  hall  bedrooms;  there  were  dressmakers  on 
the  ground  floor,  and  some  teachers  two  flights 
up.  In  the  admiral's  time,  the  manners  and 
people  were  different,  but  possibly  not  so  inter 
esting.  A  little  further  down  on  that  side  of 
the  Court  was  a  house  once  made  reverend  by 
the  name  of  "parsonage."  When  the  clergy 
man  died,  his  heirs  let  it  to  a  pretty  widow 
with  two  flaxen-haired  children  and  a  dog;  and 
now  the  twro  or  three  old  families  left  in  the 
Court  looked  at  the  house  doubtfully,  and  said 
they  wished  they  knew  something  about  the 
inmates ;  but  none  of  them  took  the  trouble  to 


ELIZABETH.  119 

learn  anything  about  them  by  calling.  The 
heirs,  however,  found  that  in  spite  of  rumors, 
the  rent  was  paid  promptly,  so  they  had  no 
reason  to  complain.  The  whole  neighborhood 
had  run  down.  Mr.  Thomas  Sayre  pointed 
that  out  to  his  father  a  dozen  years  ago,  but  old 
Mr.  Sayre  shook  his  white  head. 

"Your  mother  doesn't  find  fault,"  he  said. 

Nor  did  she.  Her  husband  found  his  happi 
ness  here ;  he  loved  every  brick  in  the  house, 
every  tree  on  the  sidewalk;  the  whole  Court 
was  full  of  small  landmarks  of  association  with 
his  past ;  so,  as  he  said,  his  wife  found  no  fault, 
—  for  his  happiness  was  hers  ;  the  quiet  of  the 
forsaken  old  Court  was  a  trial  to  her  cheerful 
heart,  and  she  did  resent  the  behavior  of  the 
children  who  came  up  out  of  the  alley  to  play 
in  the  plot  of  grass  in  the  middle  of  the  square ; 
they  dropped  orange  skins  about,  and  stared 
rudely  at  the  occasional  passer-by,  or  followed 
in  solemn  and  ecstatic  procession  the  ubiqui 
tous  organ  -  grinder  in  his  daily  tour  up  one 
side  of  the  Court  and  down  the  other.  But 
William  loved  it  all,  and  so,  she  said  to  her 
self,  "it  was  of  no  consequence."  Afterward, 
when  William  had  been  taken  away  from  her, 
all  these  small  annoyances  grew  to  have  a  cer 
tain  beauty  of  their  own;  a  deep  and  tender 
sacredness,  about  which  she  spoke  to  her  daugh- 


120  ELIZABETH. 

ter,  and  her  husband's  sister,  Susan,  with  the 
simplicity  of  a  child;  —  a  characteristic  which 
neither  of  her  listeners  shared,  and  scarcely  un 
derstood. 

Her  son  understood  her  better;  yet  even  he 
did  not  see  that,  with  all  the  frankness  of  a 
sweet  old  age,  she  would  hesitate  to  tell  him 
that  it  had  become  necessary  to  take  a  lodger 
at  No.  16.  A  mother  often  feels  that  a  child 
should  have  the  intuitive  knowledge  which  be 
longs  to  a  parent,  and  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Sayre, 
although  she  did  not  put  it  into  words  even  to 
herself,  that  Thomas,  if  he  stopped  to  think, 
would  be  aware  of  her  needs;  but  of  course, 
being  his  mother,  she  found  immediate  excuse 
that  he  did  not  stop  to  think.  She  had  been 
careful,  during  the  four  years  that  Mr.  Hamil 
ton  had  been  an  inmate  of  her  house,  to  avoid 
mentioning  his  name  in  her  letters  to  her  son ; 
so  now,  on  this  his  first  visit  home,  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  sitting-room,  scold 
ing  his  sister  to  express  his  self-reproach,  Mr. 
Thomas  Sayre  had  many  things  to  learn. 

"Yes,  it 's  outrageous,  Lizzie,  that  neither 
you  nor  aunt  Susan  wrote  to  me  about  it,"  he 
repeated  crossly.  "But  I  '11  put  an  end  to  it, 
now  I  've  found  it  out  for  myself.  I  '11  give 
the  fellow  notice  to-morrow  !  " 

Elizabeth  Say  re's  face  hardened.     It  was  a 


ELIZABETH.  121 

delicate  face,  and  fine  ;  with  sensitive  lips,  and 
brown,  calm  eyes  shining  from  under  dark 
brows;  the  straight,  dark  hair  was  parted  in 
the  middle,  over  a  tranquil  forehead,  and  then 
brushed  smoothly  down  behind  her  ears;  it 
was  a  face  in  which  sweetness  was  hidden  by 
determination,  but  the  sweetness  was  there. 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "Mr.  Hamilton 
will  remain  here  as  long  as  he  wishes.  Mother 
would  be  very  sorry  to  have  him  go." 

Her  brother,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  turned 
and  looked  at  her. 

"Ah?  "  he  said.  The  significance  in  his  tone 
was  unmistakable.  Elizabeth  flushed  like  a 
rose,  but  she  looked  at  him  with  clear,  direct 
eyes. 

"  /  should  be  sorry  to  have  him  go,  too.  He 
is  a  very  unhappy  and  lonely  man,  and  if  we 
can  cheer  him,  and  make  his  life  brighter,  we 
are  glad  to  do  it."  . 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

"He  has  lost  his  wife." 

"Oh  !  "  Mr.  Sayre  said  blankly,  but  with  a 
little  irritation  as  well.  He  was  mistaken, 
then;  Lizzie  was  not  "interested."  "Well,  I 
can't  help  that,"  he  said.  "Widower  or  not, 
you  can't  expect  me  to  let  my  mother  come 
down  to  taking  lodgers  while  I  have  plenty  of 
money." 


122  ELIZABETH. 

"I  should  not  have  expected  it." 

Thomas  Sayre  flushed  angrily.  "Well, 
you've  no  right  to  reproach  me;  you  should 
have  told  me  about  it.  As  for  this  artist  fel 
low,  I  suppose  his  wife  died  here,  and  mother 
had  all  the  annoyance  of  that?" 

"No,  she  did  not  die  here,"  his  sister  an 
swered  briefly;  "it  was  before  he  came  here." 

"But  he's  been  here  four  years!"  cried 
Mr.  Sayre.  Elizabeth  looked  at  him  with  a 
puzzled  frown.  "I  mean,  you  said  he  was  all 
broken  up  by  his  wife's  death?" 

"Well?" 

"And  she  died  four  years  ago  !  "  He  put  his 
head  back  and  laughed. 

"Five  years  ago,"  she  corrected  him;  "it  was 
a  year  before  he  came  here." 

"Five  years?  "  He  chuckled  and  slapped  his 
thigh.  "My  dear  Lizzie,  you  are  a  great 
goose.  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  Mr.  Ham 
ilton  did  not  regret  his  wife  properly,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing;  but  a  man  doesn't  sit  in 
dust  and  ashes  for  five  years,  you  know.  It 's 
absurd  to  pretend  he  does,  and  give  him  house- 
room  as  an  expression  of  sympathy." 

"You  don't  know  Mr.  Hamilton,"  Elizabeth 
said.  "Dust  and  ashes  may  not  be  your  idea 
of  bereaved  Love,  Tom,  but  it  is  some  people's; 
and  perhaps  if  you  had  known  his  wife,  even 


ELIZABETH.  123 

you  might  understand  a  grief  lasting  five  years. 
She  was  a  very  lovely  woman." 

"He  has  been  comforted,  though,  since  he 
has  been  here,  has  he?"  Mr.  Sayre  observed. 
"  '  Even  I '  can  understand  that." 

He  had  begun  to  be  good-natured,  as  he 
found  himself  amused,  but  his  sister  turned 
upon  him. 

"No;  and  he  never  will  be  comforted!  He 
will  never  care  for  any  one  else.  Oh,  how  con 
temptible  you  are,  Tom,  how "  The  indig 
nant  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes;  "Good-night," 
she  said.  "I  think  we  won't  talk  any  longer. 
Of  course  he  stays  here.  He  leases  the  rooms 
by  the  year.  I  '11  —  I  '11  go  upstairs  now. 
Oh,  Tom!" 

She  left  him  without  trusting  herself  to  look 
at  him.  Mr.  Sayre  sat  down,  threw  one  leg 
over  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  whistled. 


II. 

No.  16  Bulfinch  Court  was  on  the  corner 
where  Diamond  Alley  came  over  from  the  thor 
oughfare  beyond  to  connect  it  with  the  world. 
The  house  had  been  painted  white  once,  but 
was  a  dingy  drab  now;  the  windows,  set  deep 
in  the  brick  walls,  had  wide  sills,  upon  which 
Mrs.  Sayre  kept  her  flower-pots  and  knitting- 


124  ELIZABETH. 

basket,  or  where  she  could  rest  her  book  and 
her  after-dinner  cup  of  tea,  with  that  happy 
disregard  of  order  which  tried  the  delicate  pre 
cision  of  her  daughter.  There  was  a  small 
yard  in  front  of  the  house,  inclosed  by  a  high 
iron  fence  that  looked  like  a  row  of  black  pikes, 
rusted  here  and  there,  or  gray  with  matted  cob 
webs,  and  spotted  with  little  white  cocoons.  The 
earth  was  hard  and  bare,  except  for  a  skim  of 
green  mould  and  occasional  thin,  wiry  blades  of 
grass;  the  continual  shadow  of  a  great  ailan- 
tus  tree  which  stood  in  one  corner,  kept  the 
yard  faintly  damp  even  in  the  hottest  weather, 
and  there  was  always  the  heavy  scent  of  the 
strange  blossoms,  or  else  of  the  fallen  leaves. 
Elizabeth  tried  to  keep  some  pansies  alive  here 
in  the  summer,  but  they  languished  for  want 
of  sunshine. 

On  this  still,  hot  August  afternoon,  the 
young  woman  looked  as  languid  as  her  dark 
flowers.  Her  talk  with  her  brother,  the  night 
before,  and  her  shame  that  she  had  lost  her 
temper,  had  been  a  pain  that  still  showed  itself 
in  her  face.  Mr.  Sayre's  indifference,  too,  to 
her  repentance  (for  in  the  morning,  when  she 
asked  his  pardon,  he  only  laughed,  and  said : 
"Bless  you,  Lizzie,  dear,  that's  all  right.  I 
was  a  bear;  the  fellow  shall  stay,  if  you  think 
it  wouldn't  be  the  square  thing  to  turn  him 


ELIZABETH.  125 

out"), — such  indifference  had  pinched  and 
chilled  her,  as  a  burly  north  wind  might  shut 
a  flower.  She  knew  intuitively  that  his  change 
of  purpose  had  something  to  do  with  that  hint 
of  Mr.  Hamilton's  being  "comforted,"  which 
had  so  wounded  her  the  night  before  in  its 
slight  to  Love  and  Grief.  Still,  she  felt  the  re 
coil  of  her  own  sharp  words  to  her  brother,  as 
one  unused  to  firearms  feels  the  recoil  of  a  shot, 
and  her  face  betrayed  the  pain  of  self-reproach. 

Thomas  Sayre  was  out;  he  had  taken  his 
pretty  Fanny  and  gone  to  make  some  calls  on 
old  friends,  and  now  his  mother  was  letting  the 
moments  of  waiting  for  his  return  melt  into  a 
pleasant  dream  of  her  good  son,  her  dear  boy. 
The  windows  were  open,  and  the  noises  of  the 
alley  came  in.  Elizabeth  was  moving  about  in 
the  dusk,  laying  the  table  for  tea.  It  was  too 
hot  for  lights,  and  Mrs.  Sayre  had  put  down 
her  sewing  and  was  sitting  by  the  window,  her 
active  old  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Once  or 
twice  she  glanced  at  her  daughter.  Elizabeth's 
unfailing  precision  made  this  task  of  setting 
the  table  every  evening  a  long  one.  Mrs. 
Sayre  lifted  her  hands  at  last  with  good-natured 
impatience. 

"My  dear,  when  you  have  a  husband  and 
children,  you  will  really  have  to  move  about  a 
little  quicker.  Dear  me !  when  I  was  your 


126  ELIZABETH. 

age,  I  could  have  set  ten  tables  in  the  time 
you  've  taken  to  set  one  !  " 

Elizabeth  started,  and  blushed  faintly. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  in  any  hurry,  mo 
ther  dear,"  she  said;  and  as  she  tried  to  make 
haste,  one  of  the  plates  slipped  through  her 
fingers,  striking  another  with  that  suspicious 
sound  which  tells  of  a  nicked  edge. 

Mrs.  Sayre  looked  away,  and  tapped  her  fin 
gers  on  the  window-sill. 

"Oh,  I  am  afraid  I  have  chipped  the  willow 
plate  !  "  Elizabeth  said,  with  the  sensitive  quiver 
in  her  voice  which  always  went  to  her  mother's 
heart. 

"Never  mind,  dearie,"  she  reassured  her; 
"it's  no  matter." 

Elizabeth  sighed,  and  even  frowned  a  little 
in  the  darkness;  her  mother's  indifference  was 
a  continual  trial  to  her.  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
been  so  careless,"  she  said,  with  faint  severity 
in  her  voice;  and  Mrs.  Sayre  was  silenced. 

It  was  a  relief  to  both  of  them  when  the  third 
member  of  the  household  entered.  Miss  Susan 
Sayre  was  a  tall,  timid  woman,  older  than  Mrs. 
Sayre,  and  yet,  as  is  often  the  case  with  unmar 
ried  women,  indefinitely  younger  than  her  sis 
ter-in-law;  she  had  Elizabeth's  exactness,  but 
with  it  a  deprecatory  tremor  that  gave  all  her 
actions  the  effect  of  uncertainty.  Many  a  time 


ELIZABETH.  127 

Mrs.  Sayre  would  hold  her  own  dear  old  hands 
tight  together,  to  keep  from  seizing  some  bit  of 
work  on  which  Miss  Susan  was  toiling  with  la 
borious  and  painstaking  clumsiness.  "It  would 
be  so  much  easier  to  do  it  myself,"  she  would 
think,  although  she  hoped  she  would  have  the 
grace  never  to  say  so  !  "Fussy  "  she  called  her 
sister-in-law,  sometimes,  when  she  felt  she  must 
have  the  relief  of  speech.  But  she  was  glad 
to  see  her  now,  because  of  the  disapproval  of 
Elizabeth's  silence. 

She  and  'Liz'beth  did  not  seem  to  get  along 
together,  Mrs.  Sayre  thought.  Often  enough, 
upon  her  knees,  she  had  asked  herself  "why?" 
searching  her  simple  heart  to  find  her  own 
offense. 

There  is,  perhaps,  some  psychical  and  uncom- 
prehended  reason  why  the  truest  confidences  be 
tween  mother  and  daughter  are  so  difficult  and 
so  rare.  Usually,  a  girl  can  speak  of  the  deep 
est  things  in  her  life  with  greater  ease  to  any 
one  else  than  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Sayre  felt 
her  daughter's  remoteness,  but  no  one  thought 
she  did.  Such  generous,  tender,  healthy  na 
tures  rarely  think  themselves  of  enough  impor 
tance  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  day,  and  say  that 
"they  are  not  understood."  And  yet  it  is  very 
often  the  case;  the  more  morbid  souls  about 
them  are  baffled  by  their  very  frankness  and 


128  ELIZABETH. 

openness,  and  are  really  unable  to  understand 
them;  and,  too  often,  unable  also  to  appreciate 
them. 

Elizabeth,  loving  her  mother  with  a  curious 
intensity  which  spent  itself  in  the  subtleties  of 
conscientious  scruples,  was  as  unaware  of  Mrs. 
Sayre's  longing  for  a  more  tender  companion 
ship  as  she  was  of  her  mother's  ability  to  un 
derstand  her ;  —  for,  quite  without  confidences 
from  Elizabeth,  and  in  spite  of  "not  getting 
along,"  Mrs.  Say  re  could  read  her  daughter's 
nature  with  wonderful  clearness,  although  she 
could  not  explain  it  in  relation  to  her  own.  It 
would  have  been  well  for  the  daughter  could 
the  mother  have  boldly  broken  down  the  reserve 
between  them,  and  confessed  just  what  she  read, 
—  confessed  that  she  knew  that  the  most  vital 
interest  in  Elizabeth's  life  was  Oliver  Hamil 
ton.  She  would  have  added  to  this  that  Lizzie 
did  not  know  she  was  in  love  with  Mr.  Hamil 
ton.  Here,  however,  would  have  been  her  first 
mistake:  Elizabeth  was  perfectly  aware  that 
she  loved  him.  Mrs.  Sayre  made  one  other 
mistake,  too;  she  said  to  herself,  amused  and 
good-natured  and  annoyed  all  together,  that  it 
was  plain  enough  that  Mr.  Hamilton  was  in 
love  with  'Liz'beth.  "Ami  there  is  no  earthly 
reason  why  he  should  n't  speak!  "  she  reflected. 
But  there  was  a  reason,  and  an  excellent  rea- 


ELIZABETH.  129 

son,  for  Oliver  Hamilton's  silence:  he  did  not 
know  that  he  was  in  love  with  Elizabeth. 

It  was  no  wonder,  though,  that  Mrs.  Sayre's 
penetration  failed  her  here.  How  could  she 
suppose  that  her  daughter's  one  aim  had  been 
to  keep  the  young  man  blind  to  any  such  possi 
bility  in  himself  as  falling  in  love?  She  never 
imagined  that  Elizabeth  was  holding  him  rigidly 
to  his  ideal  of  the  sacredness  and  eternity  of 
love,  —  an  ideal  which  had  sprung  up  out  of 
his  passionate  grief  when  his  wife  died.  That 
was  five  years  ago.  He  had  come  then  to  Eliz 
abeth,  for  she  had  been  Alice's  friend,  that  he 
might  take  that  poor,  empty,  human  comfort 
of  talking  of  the  past.  He  had  told  her  all  his 
grief,  and  his  simple,  hopeless  conviction  that 
his  life  was  over;  told  it  with  that  pathetic  as 
sertion  of  an  undying  sorrow  with  which  human 
nature  seeks  to  immortalize  a  moment. 

Such  loyalty  seemed  to  Elizabeth  so  beauti 
ful,  that  her  reverence  for  it  fed  the  flame  of 
his  devotion  to  his  ideal,  even  as  time  began 
to  stand  between  him  and  the  substance  of  his 
grief.  He  did  not  know  it,  —  he  could  not, 
with  Elizabeth's  worshiping  belief  in  it,  — but 
now,  five  years  later,  it  was  the  memory  of 
grief,  not  grief  itself,  which  still  darkened  his 
life.  It  was  a  lonely  life,  save  for  Elizabeth's 
friendship:  long  days  in  his  studio,  dreaming 


130  ELIZABETH. 

over  unfinished  canvases,  brooding  upon  anni 
versaries  of  which  she  reminded  him;  talking 
of  an  ideal  love,  in  which  he  believed  that  he  be 
lieved.  And  so,  gradually,  as  his  mind  yielded 
to  the  pressure  of  her  thought  of  him,  and  his 
life  mirrored  a  loyalty  which  was  hers,  he  began 
to  be  the  embodiment  of  nobility  to  Elizabeth 
Sayre,  and  by  and  by  the  time  had  come  when 
she  said  to  herself,  very  simply,  that  she  loved 
him ;  but  she  said,  also,  very  proudly,  that  he 
would  never  love  her.  That  "  never  "was  the 
very  heart  of  her  love  for  him. 

Surely,  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  appre 
ciate  such  a  state  of  mind  was  Elizabeth's  cheer 
ful,  simple  -  minded,  sensible  mother.  And  so 
she  continued  to  hope  and  plan  for  this  marriage 
which  she  so  much  desired,  and  to  try  by  small 
hints  to  "encourage"  Oliver  Hamilton.  This 
hinting  was,  perhaps,  the  hardest  thing  which 
Elizabeth  had  to  bear.  Her  silent  endurance 
told  of  the  smothered  antagonism  between 
mother  and  daughter,  which  each  would  have 
denied  indignantly  in  herself,  but  wras  quite 
aware  of  in  the  other. 

It  had  been  a  great  relief  to  Mrs.  Sayre  to 
confide  her  desires  and  impatience  to  her  son. 
She  had  done  it  that  very  morning;  which  ac 
counted  for  his  change  of  mind  in  the  matter  of 
the  objectionable  lodger,  when  Elizabeth  went 


ELIZABETH.  131 

to  him  with  her  apology  for  her  quick  words. 
With  instant  good-nature,  he  had  decided  to 
further  his  mother's  hopes.  With  this  purpose 
in  his  mind,  he  had  gone  up  to  Mr.  Hamilton's 
studio  that  afternoon  and  looked  at  his  sketches 
with  far  more  helpful  and  discriminating  criti 
cism  than  Elizabeth,  with  her  wondering  praise, 
had  ever  given.  Fanny  went,  too,  hanging  on 
her  father's  arm,  shyly  watching  Mr.  Hamilton, 
or  answering  his  occasional  reference  to  herself 
in  a  half -frightened,  schoolgirl  fashion.  She  was 
certainly  very  pretty,  Mr.  Hamilton  thought. 

"Pretty,  and  a  dear  child  !  "  Mrs.  Sayre  said, 
watching  her  with  the  fondest  pride,  but  with 
a  curious  jealousy,  too,  for  her  daughter's  sake. 
Fanny  was  so  gay  and  pretty,  so  light-hearted 
and  careless,  she  revealed  Elizabeth's  impossi 
bilities. 

"Not  that  I  'd  have  Lizzie  different,"  she  as 
sured  her  sister-in-law,  as  they  sat  in  the  dark 
ening  parlor,  while  Elizabeth  went  to  get  an 
other  willow  plate  from  the  china  closet  —  "  not 
that  I  'd  have  her  different;  only  I  would  like 
to  see  her  enjoy  life  a  little  more." 

"I  don't  think  'Liz'beth  is  unhappy,"  pro 
tested  the  old  aunt,  "only  she  just  doesn't  show 
her  happiness  in  the  way  we  used  to  when  we 
were  girls." 

"Girls!"    said   Mrs.    Sayre.      "You   really 


132  ELIZABETH. 

can't  call  Lizzie  a  'girl,'  Susy.  Why,  I  was 
married  at  her  age,  and  had  three  children. 
Dear,  dear,  I  wish  the  child  was  settled!  " 

"Oh,  now,  Jane,"  remonstrated  the  other 
mildly,  "I've  always  been  happy,  and  there's 
no  reason  why  'Liz'beth  should  n't  be,  too,  even 
if  she  doesn't  marry.  Indeed,  it's  better  to 
be  as  I  am  than  to  be  unhappily  married;  and 
that  is  possible,  you  know,  Jane." 

''  Not  among  nice  people,"  Mrs.  Sayre  said, 
with  decision;  "not  when  people  do  their  duty. 
And  a  poor  husband  's  better  than  none.  No 
woman 's  happy  unless  she 's  married.  And 
then,  to  think  here  is  poor,  dear  Oliver  — 
Well,  well,  I  suppose  the  Lord  knows  best." 

"If  you  think  so,  sister,  why  don't  you  leave 
it  in  his  hands?"  said  Susan  piously.  "The 
Lord  will  provide,  you  know." 

"That's  just  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Sayre.  "He 
has  provided,  and  she  won't  take  his  provision. 
And  she  's  not  as  young  as  she  was  once,  Susy, 
you  can't  deny  that;  little  Fanny  made  me 
realize  it.  She  's  old  enough  herself  to  settle 
down,  bless  her  heart!  She's  nineteen,  isn't 
she?  Here's  'Liz'beth,"  she  interrupted  her 
self,  as  her  daughter  entered;  "she  knows. 
How  old  is  Fanny,  'Liz'beth,  —  nineteen?" 

"Eighteen,  mother;  she  is  not  nineteen  until 
next  month,"  Elizabeth  corrected  her. 


ELIZABETH.  133 

"Nonsense!  "  cried  her  mother;  "what  differ 
ence  does  a  week  or  two  make?  She's  nine 
teen  ;  and  the  first  thing  we  know,  she  '11  be 
getting  married.  I  hope  so,  I  'm  sure.  You 
needn't  look  shocked,  my  dear;  I  was  eighteen 
when  your  blessed'  father  married  me.  I  be 
lieve  in  early  marriages,  —  anything  to  save  a 
girl  from  being  an  old  maid !  And  see  here, 
Lizzie,  I  want  Oliver  Hamilton  to  see  Fanny. 
I  'm  not  a  matchmaker,  but  there  's  no  harm  in 
Oliver's  seeing  Fanny." 

She  looked  at  her  daughter  with  something  as 
much  like  malice  as  could  come  into  her  motherly 
face.  Elizabeth  smiled. 

"But  no  good,  either,  if  you  mean  that  he 
might  care  for  Fanny." 

"Oh,  'Liz'beth  !  'Liz'beth  !  Where  did  you 
get  your  fancies?  "  cried  the  other.  "Not  from 
me,  surely.  Lizzie,  second  marriages  are  the 
Lord's  means  of  healing  broken  hearts.  Oliver 
would  be  a  thousand  times  better  off  with  an 
other  wife,  instead  of  brooding  over  his  loss. 
Bless  me,  if  I  had  died  when  I  was  a  youn<£ 
woman,  I  would  have  made  your  dear  father 
promise  to  get  another  wife  as  soon  as  he  pos 
sibly  could.  I  always  used  to  say  that  my  last 
words  would  be,  "William,  marry  again!  " 

"And  you,  mother,"  Elizabeth  inquired, 
smiling,  "you  would  have  married  again,  if" 


134  ELIZABETH. 

"Not  at  all, "Mrs.  Sayre  declared;  "that's 
quite  different.  It  is  the  men  who  should  re 
marry,  not  the  women.  It 's  a  great  misfortune 
when  a  man  remains  a  widower.  I  wrish  you  'd 
remember  that,  Lizzie." 

Elizabeth  Sayre  blushed'  with  indignation, 
and  made  no  reply.  Mrs.  Sayre  sighed.  She 
was  glad  that  Tom  was  at  home  for  a  little 
while.  Tom  was  like  her,  she  thought. 

"Neither  of  us  will  ever  be  as  good  as  Eliza 
beth,"  she  assured  herself.  And  she  seemed 
to  find  the  assertion  a  comfort. 


III. 

Mr.  Thomas  Sayre  knew  the  satisfaction  of 
self -approval  when  he  and  his  daughter  turned 
their  faces  toward  home.  lie  had  done  his 
duty ;  he  had  made  his  visit,  he  had  given  him 
self  the  pleasure  of  adding  to  his  mother's  in 
come,  and  now  he  could  allow  these  dear  people 
to  drift  into  that  pleasant  background  of  his 
^thoughts  where  he  took  his  affection  for  them 
for  granted.  He  congratulated  himself,  too, 
upon  his  kindness  to  his  sister;  he  had  done 
what  he  could  to  make  Elizabeth  happy ;  he  had 
dropped  a  few  hints  to  Mr.  Hamilton,  even  go 
ing  so  far  as  to  refer,  casually,  to  the  time  when 
Lizzie  would  marry  somebody,  and  his  mother 


ELIZABETH.  135 

would  be  left  alone.  "Of  course  she  '11  marry 
one  of  these  days ;  I  only  hope  it  will  be  some 
fellow  who  is  worthy  of  her!  "  said  Mr.  Sayre, 
feeling  that  he  was  very  subtile,  and  that  Ham 
ilton  must  surely  come  to  the  point,  pretty  soon. 
Indeed,  anxious  to  prove  his  friendliness,  he  had 
made  the  artist  promise  that  when  he  came  on 
to  the  academy  with  his  picture,  he  would  call 
upon  him. 

"Let  us  know  when  you  're  in  town,  Hamil 
ton,"  he  said  heartily;  "we'll  be  delighted  to 
see  you,  and  hear  the  latest  news  of  Lizzie  and 
the  old  people."  » 

And  Mr.  Hamilton  was  glad  to  promise.  He 
had  enjoyed  this  visit.  Thomas  Sayre  seemed 
like  a  breath  of  bracing  mountain  wind  coming 
into  his  dreamy  life ;  and  Fanny  gave  him  plea 
sure,  too.  Her  fresh  girlish  laughter  bright 
ened  all  the  old  house,  and  her  little  foolish  talk 
was  as  useless  and  as  pleasant  as  the  dancing 
sparkle  of  sunshine  on  deep,  still  water. 

The  night  that  Mr.  Sayre  and  his  daughter 
went  away,  Oliver  Hamilton  came  in  to  take 
Elizabeth  to  prayer-meeting.  This  custom  of 
going  together  every  Wednesday  evening  to 
prayer-meeting  was  very  dear  to  both  these  peo 
ple  ;  there  was  no  time  when  they  talked  so  freely 
of  Oliver's  sacred  past  as  when  they  came  out 
into  the  solemn  starlight,  the  last  words  of  the 


136  ELIZABETH. 

benediction  lingering  in  their  reverent  ears. 
That  nig'ht,  as  the}7  walked  toward  the  church, 
Oliver  began  to  speak  of  Alice  almost  immedi 
ately.  "How  it  brightened  your  mother  and 
your  aunt  Susan,  Elizabeth,  to  have  your  niece 
here!  Do  you  know,  she  made  me  think  of 
Alice,  sometimes;  there's  a  look" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  thoughtfully,  "there  is 
a  look  of  Alice.  And  yet,  dear  little  Fanny 
has  not  the  earnestness  in  her  |ace  which  made 
Alice  the  strength  that  she  was  to  those  who 
loved  her.  She  was  so  strong.  That  is  why 
she  lives  in  your  ITfe  still,  Oliver." 

Oliver's  quick  appreciation  of  her  words  grat 
ified  her,  as  only  the  confirmation  of  an  ideal 
can  gratify  one  who  loves.  It  brought  a  serious 
joy  into  her  eyes,  which  lie  noticed  as  they  sat 
side  by  side  in  the  prayer-meeting,  singing  from 
the  same  book,  or  standing  together  in  prayer. 

Oliver. did  not  follow  the  service  very  closely. 
That  merry  glimpse  of  life  which  Mr.  Sayre's 
visit  had  given  to  No.  1C  lingered  in  his 
thoughts.  Ah,  if  Alice  had  only  lived,  how 
different  his  life  would  have  been !  How  truly 
Elizabeth  loved  her,  how  truly  she  understood 
her  !  What  would  he  have  done  without  Eliza 
beth?  As  this  thought  came  into  his  mind,  an 
other  followed  it,  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  chases 
the  sunshine  from  an  upland  pasture:  What 


ELIZABETH.  137 

should  he  do  without  Elizabeth?  "When  she 
marries"  (Mr.  Sayre's  words  suddenly  sounded 
in  his  ears)  —  "when  she  marries,  what  shall 
I  do?  "  The  shock  of  the  idea  was  almost 

physical.  He  turned  and  looked  at  her;  her 
face  was  bent  a  little,  but  he  saw  the  pure  line 
of  her  cheek  under  the  shadow  of  her  chip 
hat,  which  was  tied  beneath  her  chin  with  lav 
ender  ribbons.  She  wore  a  white  crepe  shawl, 
embroidered  above  the  deep,  soft  fringe  with  a 
running  vine  of  silk;  her  hands  were  clasped 
lightly  in  her  lap ;  her  gray  alpaca  gown  gleamed 
faintly  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  wall  above 
her.  Elizabeth  marry  ?  Impossible !  But  sup 
pose  she  should?  What  difference  would  it 
make  to  him?  Would  she  not  still  be  Alice's 
friend,  — his  friend?  In  this  sudden  confusion, 
his  ideals  seemed  to  evade  him.  Did  he  —  did 
he  love  Elizabeth? 

He  felt  his  face  grow  white.  He  had  spir 
itually  the  sensation  of  a  man  who  wakes  be 
cause  he  dreams  that  he  is  falling  from  a  height. 
Oliver  Hamilton's  eyes  were  opening  to  life 
and  light  and  a  possibility.  His  grief  was 
withdrawing,  and  withdrawing,  and  in  its  place 
were  pain  and  confusion  and  doubt, 

Elizabeth,  listening  to  the  preacher,  her  head 
bending  like  a  flower  on  its  stalk,  was  so  calm 
and  so  remote  that  his  reverence  for  her  was 


138  ELIZABETH. 

almost  fear.  When  they  rose  to  sing  the  last 
hymn,  and  she  missed  his  voice,  she  looked  at 
him  inquiringly,  and,  with  an  effort,  he  followed 
mechanically  the  guidance  he  had  known  so  long. 
He  tried  to  sing,  but  at  first  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  words :  — 

"  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 

Our  hearts  in  Christian  love ! 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  minds 
Is  like  to  that  above. 


From  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain, 

And  sin  we  shall  be  free  ; 
And  perfect  love  and  friendship  reign 

Through  all  eternity!  " 

through  all  eternity! 

"Do  I  love  her?"  he  was  asking  himself, 
and  the  very  question  seemed  an  affirmation. 

"You  didn't  sing?"  Elizabeth  said,  when 
they  were  alone  under  the  stars. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly.  She  was  startled  at 
his  tone,  and  looked  at  him  anxiously,  but  with 
out  a  question.  (This  habit  of  hers  of  waiting 
silently  was,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  a 
most  insistent  and  inescapable  question.)  "  Eliz 
abeth,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "it  has  just  come  to 
me  —  I  -  Listen  !  What  should  I  have  done 
without  you  all  these  years?  Do  you- — do  you 
understand?  " 

It  seemed  to  Elizabeth  Sayre  as  though  for 


ELIZABETH.  139 

one  instant  her  heart  stood  still.  But  the  pause 
between  Oliver's  words  and  her  answer  was 
scarcely  noticeable. 

"It  has  been  a  great  privilege  to  me,"  she  said, 
with  a  breath  as  though  her  throat  contracted ; 
"it  is  a  great  happiness  to  have  helped  you  in 
any  way.  It  is  my  love  for  Alice  that  has 
helped  you." 

"Alice!" 

Oliver  made  no  answer.  They  walked  on, 
Elizabeth  knowing  that  her  hand  trembled  on 
his  arm,  and  feeling  still  that  clutch  upon  her 
throat. 

IV. 

"Why,  Lizzie,  aren't  you  going  to  stop  a 
minute?  Are  n't  you  going  to  sit  down?  " 

Elizabeth  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  par 
lor,  her  hand  on  the  door-knob.  Through  her 

o 

mother's  words,  she  was  listening  to  Oliver 
Hamilton's  step  as  he  went  up  to  his  studio. 
Mr.  Hamilton  had  left  her  at  the  front  door, 
and  gone  at  once  to  his  rooms,  instead  of  stop 
ping  as  usual  for  a  chat  with  Mrs.  Sayre. 
The  rest  of  their  walk  home,  after  that  word 
"Alice,"  had  been  full  of  forced  and  idle  talk, 
which  covered  the  shocked  silence  of  their 
thoughts. 

Mrs.     Sayre' s    voice    now    seemed    to     her 


140  ELIZABETH. 

daughter  like  a  stone  flung  into  a  still  pool, 
which  shattered  the  silence,  and  let  loose  a 
clamorous  repetition  of  this  strange  thing  Oli 
ver  had  said,  or  rather  this  terrible  thing  which 
he  had  left  unsaid.  Elizabeth  leaned  against 
the  door,  holding  the  knob  in.  a  nervous  grip. 

"  Come,  child,  sit  down  and  tell  us  about  the 
sermon,"  Mrs.  Say  re  commanded  her,  cheerily. 
"No,"  Elizabeth  said,  "I  only  stopped  to  say 
good-night.     I  —  I  am  rather  tired." 

"Why,   what's  happened    to  Oliver?"  said 
Mrs.   Sayre.     "Why    does  n't    he    come    in    a 
minute?      Have  you  and  Elizabeth  quarreled, 
Oliver?"  she  called  out  good-naturedly,  think 
ing  him  still  in  the  hall. 
Elizabeth  turned  abruptly. 
"Good-night,"  she  said,  and  a  moment  later 
they  heard  her  light  step  on  the  stairs. 
Her  mother  and  aunt  looked  at  each  other. 
"I  believe  they  Jiave  quarreled,  Susy.     Why, 
she  did  n't  kiss  us  good-night,"  said  Mrs.  Sayre, 
in  rather  an  awed  voice. 

Elizabeth,  in  the  darkness  of  her  bedroom, 
stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  fingers 
pressed  hard  upon  her  eyes ;  her  heart  beating 
so  that  she  could  hardly  breathe.  The  white 
crepe  shawl  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  fell 
like  a  curve  of  foam  about  her  feet.  The  light 
from  the  street-lamp,  which  flared  in  an  iron 


ELIZABETH.  141 

bracket  on  the  corner  of  No.  16,  traveled  across 
the  worn  carpet,  and  showed  the  spare,  old-fash 
ioned  furnishing  of  the  room;  it  struck  a  faint 
sparkle  from  the  misty  surface  of  the  old  mir 
ror,  and  it  gleamed  along  the  edge  of  a  little  gilt 
photograph  frame  that  was  standing  on  the 
dressing-table.  Elizabeth,  shivering  a  little,  the 
soft  color  deepening  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eye 
lashes  glittering  with  tears,  saw  the  flickering 
gleam,  and,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  lifted  the 
photograph,  holding  it  close  to  her  eyes  and 
staring  at  it  in  the  darkness.  But  the  light 
from  the  lamp  in  the  court  was  too  faint  to  show 
the  face.  With  an  unsteady  hand  she  struck  a 
match  and  lit  her  candle.  She  had  forgotten 
to  take  off  her  bonnet;  she  stood,  the  light 
flaring  up  into  her  face,  looking  with  blurred 
eyes  at  Alice's  picture.  At  last,  with  a  long 
sigh,  she  kissed  it  gently  and  put  it  again  on 
the  table.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  staring  straight  before  her  at  the  can 
dle,  burning  steadily  in  the  hot,  still  night; 
her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  upon  her  knees. 

It  was  long  after  that  —  it  must  have  been 
nearly  midnight  —  that  Mrs.  Sayre  heard  a  step 
in  her  bedroom,  and  said,  with  a  start :  — 
"What  is  it?     Is  that  you,  'Liz'beth?  " 
"Yes,   mother   dear.     I  —  I  wanted   to  kiss 
you ;  I  wanted  —  you  !  " 


142  ELIZABETH. 

Mrs.  Say  re  gathered  the  slender  figure  down 
into  her  arms. 

"Why,  'Liz'beth  !  Why,  my  precious  child  ! 
Are  you  sick,  my  darling?" 

"No,  no,"  she  answered,  a  thrill  of  comfort 
in  her  voice;  "only  I  didn't  kiss  you  good 
night.  I  ought  n't  to  have  wakened  you. 
Good-night,  mother  darling." 

"But,  Lizzie,"  said  the  tender  old  voice, 
"something  troubles  you,  my  precious  child. 
Did  Oliver  "  —  She  felt  the  instant  stiffening 
of  the  arms  about  her,  and  her  daughter  drew 
herself  away. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  mother  dear," 
she  said,  her  breathless  voice  quivering  into 
calmness.  "You  will  go  to  sleep  now,  won't 
you?  I  ought  not  to  have  disturbed  -  you." 
And  she  had  gone. 

Mrs.  Sayre  sighed.  "I  wish  I  could  learn 
not  to  speak  about  him,"  she  thought.  "Yet 
if  she  would  only  tell  me  !  " 

But  nothing  could  have  been  more  impossi 
ble.  Alas  for  those  natures  that  cannot  give 
their  sorrow  to  another  !  Elizabeth  longed  for 
sympathy  and  comfort,  yet  she  knew  not  how 
to  open  her  heart  to  receive  it.  Such  natures 
suffer  infinitely  more  than  those  happier  souls 
whose  pain  rushes  to  their  lips. 

Elizabeth's  struggle  with  herself  had  ended 


ELIZABETH.  143 

when  she  sought  her  mother;  she  knew  what 
she  must  do.  She  said  to  herself  with  exul 
tation  that  she  loved  Oliver  with  all  her  soul; 
loved  him  enough  to  help  him  to  be  true  to 
himself.  He  had  told  her,  oh,  how  often,  in 
those  earlier  days,  that  to  him  marriage  was 
for  eternity  as  well  as  time;  that  Love,  from  its 
very  nature,  could  not  be  untrue,  and  so  there 
could  be  but  one  love  in  a  life.  "If  a  second 
comes,"  he  used  to  say,  "either  it  is  an  impos 
tor,  or  the  first  was;  either  the  first  marriage 
was  not  sacred,  or  the  second  will  not  be  !  " 
She  remembered  how  she  had  heard  him  say 
once  of  a  man  who  had  suffered  as  he  had  suf 
fered:  "No,  his  living  is  over;  he  can  remem 
ber,  but  he  cannot  live  again.  If  he  dares  to 
try,  life  will  be  ashes  in  his  mouth !  " 

Should  she  let  him  try  ?  Should  she  let  him 
think  that  his  love  for  Alice  was  not  love,  or 
his  love  for  her  was  disloyalty  to  Alice  ?  How 
plain,  how  easy,  was  the  answer,  just  because 
she  loved  him ! 

Y. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Sayre  looked  at 
Elizabeth  anxiously.  It  was  evident  that  her 
daughter  suffered,  and  she  longed  to  find  one 
weak  spot  in  that  armor  of  reserve  where  she 
might  pour  in  the  oil  and  wine  of  love.  But 


144  ELIZABETH. 

Elizabeth's  face  had  settled  into  the  invincible 
calm  which  sympathy  dare  not  touch.  Indeed, 
her  mother  would  even  have  wondered  whether 
her  suspicion,  in  that  hurried  kiss  at  midnight, 
had  not  been  all  wrong,  had  it  not  been  for  Mr. 
Hamilton's  manner. 

Oliver  Hamilton  was  too  confused  and  dazed 
by  his  own  possibilities  to  take  thought  of  what 
his  face  or  manner  might  betray;  he  said  to 
himself  that  Elizabeth  did  not  know  what  self- 
knowledge  had  leaped  into  his  astounded  brain 
in  those  brief  words  of  his.  But  he  would  tell 
her;  only,  not  to-day, — not  to-day!  He  did 
not  doubt  that  he  loved  her,  — at  least  he  loved 
Love ;  but  to  love  her,  gave  the  lie  to  five  years' 
protestations ! 

Elizabeth  made  no  effort  to  avoid  him.  She 
believed  so  firmly  in  his  loyalty  to  the  past, 
—  a  loyalty  so  beautiful  that  it  had  kindled  in 
her  the  very  love  which  it  denied,  —  she  be 
lieved  so  entirely  in  him  and  his  love  for  the 
dead  Alice,  that  she  would  not  permit  herself 
to  doubt  that  his  thought  of  her  was  only  a 
fleeting  fancy. 

To  avoid  him  was  to  confess  a  fear  that  it  was 
more.  So  when,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  he  sug 
gested  that  they  should  go  out  and  walk  across 
the  bridge  and  along  the  road  that  led  over  the 
marshes,  she  assented  with  pleasure ;  a  pleasure 


ELIZABETH.  145 

in  which,  when  they  started,  there  was  a  thread 
of  irritation,  because  she  knew,  as  they  walked 
down  the  Court,  that  her  mother  and  aunt 
Susan  were  looking  after  them,  and  speculating 
as  to  whether  Oliver  was  "going  to  speak." 
She  was  glad  to  turn  into  the  first  side  street, 
and  lose  the  consciousness  of  the  eyes  that  were 
watching  the  back  of  her  head.  It  was  that 
sense  of  relief  that  made  her  draw  a  long 
breath,  and  Oliver  instantly  turned  and  looked 
at  her  with  a  solicitude  in  his  eyes  which  was 
new. 

"Are  you  tired?"  he  said  gently. 

"No,"  she  answered.  She  saw  that  the  hour 
she  had  refused  to  think  possible  was  coming; 
yet  it  should  not  come!  "Oh,  Oliver,"  she 
said  hurriedly,  "I  wish  you  would  make  a 
study  of  the  marshes  in  September;  there  is  no 
autumnal  coloring  so  lovely  as  those  stretches 
of  bronze  and  red,  with  pools  here  and  there 
that  are  like  bits  of  the  sky.  Suppose  we  try 
to  find  just  what  you  want,  this  afternoon,  and 
then  this  week  you  can  go  to  work.  I  wish  you 
would  really  and  seriously  begin  to  work." 

"I  want  to,  now,  myself,"  he  said  soberly. 
"I  have  wasted  too  much  time.  Elizabeth,  I 
have  lived  in  a  dream." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  wondering  whether  the 
unsteadiness  which  she  felt  in  her  voice  could 


146  ELIZABETH. 

be  heard,  "I  know  you  have.  I  have  been 
thinking  about  it  lately,  and  I  wanted  to  say  to 
you  —  I  know  you  will  forgive  me  for  Alice's 
sake,  if  it  seems  a  hard  thing  —  I  wanted  to  say 
to  you  that  it  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  make 
your  grief  an  inspiration  in  your  life,  not  a  hin 
drance.  It  ought  to  mean  achievement,  not  a 
dream,  Oliver." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  and  when,  a  little 
later,  he  began  to  speak,  it  was  of  something 
else. 

The  walk  across  the  marshes  was  toward  the 
east;  the  city  lay  behind  them,  and  the  little 
tidal  river,  catching  a  faint  glow  on  its  darken 
ing  expanse,  wandered  on  ahead,  fading  at  last 
into  the  cold  violet  of  the  distant  hills. 

"Oh,  this  is  what  you  ought  to  do,"  Eliza 
beth  said,  as  they  paused  a  moment,  and  turned 
to  look  back  at  the  town,  whose  windows  flared 
with  a  sudden  ruddy  blaze.  The  housetops 
were  black  against  the  yellow  sky ;  a  cross  upon 
a  distant  spire  flashed,  and  then  faded  into  the 
sunset.  The  sea  stretched  its  fingers  in  among 
the  marshes,  and  rifts  of  water  shone  blue  with 
the  faint  upper  sky,  or  fiercely  red  where  the 
clouds  along  the  west  were  mirrored.  The  salt 
grass  had  bronzed  and  bleached,  and  had  a  hun 
dred  rippling  tints  of  dull  purple  or  warmer 
russet.  Some  of  it  had  been  cut,  and  lay  in 


ELIZABETH.  147 

sodden  yellow  swaths,  and  some  had  been  gath 
ered  into  haystacks,  that  stood  here  and  there 
like  little  thatched  domes.  A  group  of  boys 
were  playing  down  by  the  water,  and  their  black 
figures  stood  out  clear  against  the  amber  sky ;  a 
tongue  of  flame  from  their  bonfire  leaped  up, 
red  and  sharp,  and  lapsed  again ;  and  the  lazy 
trail  of  white  smoke,  lying  low  along  the  marsh, 
brought  to  the  two  watchers  the  faint  delicious 
scent  of  burning  brush  and  drift. 

"Oh,  couldn't  you  do  this?"  Elizabeth  said, 
breathless  with  the  joy  of  color.  "Oh,  how 
wonderful  the  sky  is !  " 

But  Oliver,  instead  of  planning  for  a  picture, 
was  staring  into  her  face. 

"Elizabeth,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  — 
something.  When  I  said  I  wanted  to  begin  to 
work,  did  you  understand  what  I  meant?  My 
past,  you  know  what  it  is  to  me,  but —  Oh, 
Elizabeth  "- 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  his,  but  she 
answered  calmly :  — 

"Yes,  indeed  I  do  know  what  it  is  to  you, 
Oliver ;  and  it  is  your  present,  too,  —  I  know 
that.  I  know  how  real  Alice  is  to  you.  It  is 
she  who  makes  your  life  now,  just  as  she  has 
made  it  in  the  past,  and  will  make  it  in  the 
future." 

He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  he  had  no 


148  ELIZABETH. 

words,  only  blank  impatience  at  the  impossibil 
ity  of  putting  aside  that  sacred  name ;  and  yet 
he  was  aware  of  a  curious  willingness  to  accept 
the  check;  he  could  not  understand  himself. 

"Ought  we  not  to  go  home?"  Elizabeth  was 
saying  gently.  "See  how  gray  the  marshes  are 
getting." 

He  shivered. 

"Yes,  come." 

The  walk  home  was  very  silent. 


VI. 

The  yellow  elm-leaves  were  thick  upon  the 
ground  in  Bulfinch  Court,  when  September, 
weary  with  its  noon  heats,  held  out  an  entreat 
ing  hand  to  cool  October.  Mrs.  Say  re  found 
it  necessary  to  have  a  fire  occasionally  in  the 
evening,  and  she  could  not  understand  why  it 
was  that  Oliver  Hamilton  did  not  sometimes 
ask  to  join  the  little  circle  about  the  hearth. 

"He  used  to,  last  autumn,"  she  complained. 
"What's  the  matter,  Lizzie, — what  does  it 
mean?" 

The  anxious  interest  in  her  mother's  face 
offended  Elizabeth  Sayre;  "Have  you  refused 
him?"  it  said.  "Have  you  had  any  disagree 
ment?" 

The  indestructible  tie    between    mother    and 


ELIZABETH.  149 

daughter  was  sadly  strained  in  those  fading 
fall  days.  Elizabeth  had  withdrawn  more  and 
more  into  her  own  life ;  and  she  was  too  eager 
in  her  reticent  living  to  know  how  cruelly  she 
put  her  mother  aside.  The  thought  of  Oliver 
Hamilton  shut  every  other  thought  out.  He 
loved  her!  Here  was  glory  and  sweetness,  but 
pain  and  disappointment  as  well.  His  love  for 
the  dead  Alice,  his  serene  and  lofty  loyalty,  in 
which  Elizabeth  had  so  rejoiced,  — where  were 
they?  Yet  they  should  not  cease!  He  must 
be  true  to  his  own  ideal,  she  said  to  herself 
again  and  again ;  he  must  conquer  this  passing 
unfaith. 

With  this  determination  tingeing  every  action 
and  word,  absorbing  every  thought,  it  was  no 
wonder  Mrs.  Say  re  felt  shut  out  of  her  daugh 
ter's  heart.  Elizabeth  lived,  in  those  fall  days, 
only  to  turn  Oliver  back  to  his  own  better  life. 
In  all  her  talks  with  him,  as  they  went  to  prayer- 
meeting,  or  wandered  through  the  picture  gal 
leries,  or  came  home  together  from  the  library, 
there  was  this  strange  fencing  and  parrying. 
How  many  times,  when  she  thought  she  saw  the 
words  trembling  on  his  lips  which  would  make 
him  untrue  to  his  best  self,  and  bring  her  the 
sweetness  of  human  love,  had  she  turned  his 
thoughts  back  to  Alice!  How  many  times, 
when  the  door  to  happiness  had  seemed  about 


150  ELIZABETH. 

to  open,  had  she  closed  it  with  that  single 
word,  "Alice"! 

Alice !  Alice  !  The  name  rang  in  her  ears ; 
it  seemed  to  her  sometimes  as  though  she  hated 
Alice. 

This  suppressed  excitement  told  upon  her; 
her  face  grew  paler,  and  there  was  a  weary  look 
in  her  eyes  which  her  mother  n  >ted  with  anx 
iety.  Mrs.  Sayre  almost  betrayed  her  satisfac 
tion  when,  one  evening  late  in  September,  Oliver 
told  her  that  he  was  going  to  New  York  for  a 
fortnight,  and  promised  her  to  call  upon  her 
son,  while  he  was  there.  lie  told  Elizabeth 
gloomily,  that  he  was  glad  to  get  away ;  life  was 
a  miserable  puzzle,  he  said,  and  he  was  going  to 
forget  it  for  a  while  if  he  could. 

Her  face  brightened.  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
going  !  "  she  said.  It  was  well  that  he  should 
not  see  her  for  a  time,  she  thought;  he  would 
have  regained  his  old  faith  before  he  came  back 
again. 

The  look  of  relief  in  her  face  did  not  escape 
him. 

"She  doesn't  love  me,"  he  said  to  himself . 
"Well,  I  will  not  urge  her,  I  will  not  trouble 
her:  but  our  friendliness  is  over;  it  can  never 
be  the  same  again." 

Of  course  he  was  right.  He  was  wakening 
to  find  himself  still  a  man,  although  he  had 


ELIZABETH.  151 

slept  so  long  beneath  his  cloak  of  sorrow  that 
he  was  yet  half  blind  and  dazed ;  and  he  knew 
that  he  and  Elizabeth  must  be  either  more  to 
each  other,  or  less. 

It  would  have  been  hard  for  him  to  say  which 
was  the  stronger  in  his  mind,  his  conviction 
that  he  was  yet  capable  of  love,  or  his  shame 
that  his  love  was  capable  of  death.  It  was 
this  confusion  of  shame  and  exultation  and  pain 
that  made  it  easy  for  Elizabeth  to  check  the 
words  which  came  again  and  again  to  his  lips. 
This  sudden  vanishing  of  the  darkness  of  un 
reality  left  him  groping  in  ablaze  of  light;  he 
was  full  of  bewilderment.  He  could  not  live  as 
he  had  been  living ;  he  dared  not  think  of  Alice ; 
—  it  seemed  as  though  his  love  for  Elizabeth 
had  masqueraded  beneath  the  thought  of  Alice ! 

But  Elizabeth  felt  a  burden  lifted  when  he 
went  away. 

"It  will  be  all  right  when  he  comes  back," 
she  said  to  herself ;  "he  does  not  know  that  I 
saw  it,  and  he  will  forget  it."  And  so  she  fell 
into  the  old  round  of  duties,  and  she  and  her 
mother  came  a  little  closer  together,  only  jarring 
apart  again  when  Mrs.  Sayre  mentioned  Oliver 
Hamilton  in  any  way.  But  by  the  time  his  two 
weeks'  absence  had  lengthened  into  three,  and 
the  fourth  was  just  opening,  Mrs.  Sayre  had 
learned,  she  said  to  herself,  to  hold  her  tongue, 


152  ELIZABETH. 

and  so  she  and  her  daughter  came  to  know 
something  like  friendship,  as  well  as  the  love 
which  had  always  been  theirs. 

"  Bnt  I  would  like  to  know  what  keeps  Oli 
ver,"  she  confided  to  her  sister-in-law,  as  they 
sat  beside  the  fire,  in  the  Saturday  evening  dusk. 
"  'Liz'beth  won't  let  anybody  see  that  she  misses 
him,  but  she  does." 

Susan  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  "I  think 
Lizzie  's  glad  he  's  gone.  I  can't  say  why;  but 
that 's  how  it  seems  to  me." 

"Well,  Susy,"  interposed  the  other  with  ami 
able  contempt,  "you  can't  be  expected  to  be 
a  judge  —  you.  But  I,  being  married,  under 
stand  such  things.  She  misses  him  terribly, 
my  dear.  Well,  I  'm  glad  there  's  a  letter  from 
him  to-night.  I  wish  she  'd  come  home  and 
read  it  to  us." 

Susan  leaned  forward  and  stirred  the  fire 
gently. 

"I'm  not  married,  Jane,  I  know,"  she  ac 
knowledged  humbly;  "but  sometimes  I  think 
'Liz'beth  feels  proud  because  Oliver  's  faithful 
to  the  deceased?  " 

Mrs.  Sayre  took  off  her  glasses  and  polished 
them  quickly  on  her  black  silk  apron.  Her 
handsome  black  eyes  snapped. 

"Susy,  if  you  weren't  born  an  old  maid,  you 
never  would  have  thought  of  anything  so  ridicu- 


ELIZABETH.  153 

lous !  "  She  picked  up  the  unopened  letter  from 
the  table  and  looked  at  it  longingly.  "Dear 
me!  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  in  it.  It  's  thick 
enough  to  be  an  offer,  and  " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Elizabeth 
opened  the  sitting-room  door.  The  faint  glow 
of  the  fire  dazzled  her  eyes,  fresh  from  the  rainy 
darkness  of  the  streets,  so  that  at  first  she  did 
not  notice  the  letter.  Her  mother,  however, 
accustomed  to  the  half  -  light,  could  see  her 
daughter's  face,  and  was  troubled  by  its  pallor. 

There  was  a  reason  for  it;  a  new  pain  had 
come  to  Elizabeth  in  her  walk  home.  She  had 
gone  out  early  in  the  afternoon  to  visit  a  sick 
Sunday-school  child ;  but,  the  call  made,  she  had 
stood  hesitating  in  the  doorway  of  the  tenement 
house.  There  was  nothing  of  importance  that 
she  must  do;  there  was  no  other  visit  which 
must  be  made.  She  might  as  well  go  home. 
But  she  was  strangely  restless ;  she  did  not  want 
to  go  home.  The  thought  of  sitting  by  the  fire, 
watching  the  rainy  evening  gather  into  dark 
ness,  while  her  mother  and  aunt  Susan  talked 
about  Oliver,  was  unbearable.  She  had  borne  it 
often  in  the  past,  but  then  Oliver  had  been  in 
the  house;  while  they  were  speaking,  she  could 
listen  for  his  step  upon  the  stairs,  or  the  sound 
of  the  studio  door  closing,  and  then  the  echo 
jarring  through  the  empty  halls.  But  how  dif- 


154  ELIZABETH. 

ferent  it  all  was  at  No.  16  Bulfinch  Court  with 
out  him !  All  her  life  seemed  bleak  and  useless, 
filled  only  with  that  gentle  chatter  over  cups  of 
tea  by  the  fireside.  No,  she  could  not  go  home 
just  yet.  The  rain  beat  against  the  houses  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  there  was  a 
gush  and  gurgle  from  the  tin  spout  that  carried 
the  water  from  the  gutters  under  the  eaves.  A 
sudden  gust  of  wind  twisted  the  loose  folds  of 
her  umbrella  into  a  wet  spiral;  she  shook  it  and 
opened  it,  and  then  found  herself  plodding  out 
into  the  rain. 

She  missed  Oliver  with  a  sort  of  sick  pain 
about  her  heart  which  she  did  not  understand. 
"It 's  enough  happiness  to  love  him,  even  if  he 
does  n't  love  me,"  she  assured  herself,  as  she  had 
done  many  times  before,  never  doubting  her  own 
sincerity.  Ever  since  she  had  recognized  her 
love  for  him,  she  had  been  holding  with  all  her 
might  to  this  belief  which  human  experience 
gives  us  the  right  at  least  to  doubt,  — that  the 
human  heart  can  be  satisfied  to  give  love,  when 
it  receives  none  in  return. 

Elizabeth,  walking  aimlessly  into  the  storm, 
feeding  the  hunger  of  her  heart  with  this  asser 
tion,  found  herself  at  last  on  the  road  that  led 
over  the  marshes. 

The  sky  was  low  and  dull;  the  gray  rain  was 
sweeping  in  from  the  sea,  and  through  the  sod- 


ELIZABETH.  155 

den  grass  the  winding  fingers  of  water  were  black 
ening  at  the  touch  of  the  wind.  The  memory 
of  the  yellow  August  sunset  came  back  to  her, 
and  Oliver's  words;  she  bit  her  lip,  and  the 
landscape  blurred  as  though  with  some  sudden 
driving  mist. 

It  is  hard  enough  at  best  to  keep  the  exal 
tation  of  sacrifice  in  one's  daily  commonplace 
living;  but  when  into  that  commonplace  living 
creeps  the  suggestion  that  the  sacrifice  has  been 
unnecessary,  then  a  sick  bewilderment  falls  upon 
the  soul.  This  suggestion  came  now,  suddenly, 
to  Elizabeth  Sayre.  Perhaps  she  had  made  a 
terrible  mistake  ?  If  Oliver  loved  her,  whether 
he  put  it  into  words  or  not,  —  if  he  did,  was 
not  the  untruth  to  his  ideal  come?  Would  any 
hiding  it  from  herself  and  him  do  away  with 
the  fact  ?  Merely  to  keep  him  silent  could  not 
make  him  loyal  to  Alice. 

Elizabeth  caught  her  breath  as  one  who  sobs, 
and  yet  with  a  strange,  sharp  pang  of  joy. 
Oliver,  by  all  those  unuttered  words,  was  hers ! 

•But  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  think  such 
thoughts.  Her  mind  was  in  a  tumult;  she 
doubted  her  own  sincerity.  She  turned  and  be 
gan  to  walk  back  to  town.  She  was  very  tired; 
her  dress  was  heavy  with  dampness,  and  her  face 
wet  with  rain;  her  tears  were  hot  upon  her 
cheeks.  No  one  noticed  her  in  her  long  walk 


156  ELIZABETH. 

across  the  marshes;  the  occasional  pedestrian 
cared  only  to  shelter  himself  behind  his  um 
brella,  and  did  not  look  into  the  faces  of  young 
women  foolish  enough  to  be  out  in  such  a  storm. 
When  she  got  into  town,  it  was  quite  dark;  the 
street-lamps  gleamed  with  faint,  quivering  re 
flections  along  the  wet  pavements,  and  the  peo 
ple  were  pushing  and  jostling,  in  their  haste  to 
reach  the  cheerful  shelter  of  their  homes. 

Elizabeth  found  herself  thinking  of  the  fire 
side  and  her  mother's  face.  She  was  weary  of 
herself ;  she  wanted  to  escape  from  this  strange 
triumph  of  defeat ;  for,  at  last,  she  knew,  with 
out  reasoning  about  it,  that  she  was  going  to 
accept  the  facts  as  they  were,  —  she  was  going 
to  be  happy,  and  let  Oliver  be  happy.  Joy  had 
been  hiding  itself  under  the  pain  of  the  thought 
that  Oliver  might  never  regain  the  past.  She 
knew  now  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  regain 
it.  lie  loved  her;  —  and  she  was  glad. 

She  did  not  go  into  the  sitting-room  when  she 
reached  home;  she  was  too  wet,  she  said,  stand 
ing  in  the  doorway,  and  smiling  at  her  mother 
and  aunt;  tired,  but  with  delicate  color  deepen 
ing  in  her  face,  and  with  the  rain  still  shining 
in\er  soft  hair,  all  roughened  by  the  wind  and 
curling  about  her  forehead.  "I  '11  go  upstairs 
and  put  on  some  dry  clothes,  and  then  come 
down  and  set  the  tea-table,"  she  said;  "and 


ELIZABETH.  157 

I  'm  sorry  I  've  been  out  so  long,  mother  dear." 
There  was  a  little  burst  of  joyousness  in  her 
voice;  yet  all  the  while  she  was  wondering 
whether  a  reaction  would  come,  and  she  would 
find  herself  capable  of  taking  up  her  sacrifice 
again.  Then  she  saw  the  letter  which  her 
mother,  in  smiling  silence,  held  up  to  her.  Mrs. 
Sayre's  look  turned  her  back  into  her  old  re 
serve  ;  she  would  read  her  letter  alone. 

"I  will  be  down  in  a  moment  and  set  the 
table,"  she  repeated,  and,  taking  the  letter,  she 
slipped  out  into  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  hall, 
and  up  to  her  bedroom. 

It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Sayre,  waiting  impatiently 
for  news,  that  Elizabeth  took  a  long  time  to 
read  her  letter.  '"Liz'beth  's  like  you,  Susy," 
she  said,  "she  can't  hurry."  Indeed,  the  pause 
grew  so  long  that  Susan  offered  to  go  upstairs 
to  see  what  detained  'Liz'beth.  Susan  was 
sensitive  about  her  niece's  slowness,  because 
Mrs.  Sayre  always  pointed  out  in  this  connec 
tion  Elizabeth's  resemblance  to  her  aunt.  "Do, 
Susy,"  Mrs.  Sayre  assented,  "and  tell  her  we 
want  to  hear  what  Oliver  says."  But  Susan, 
when  she  returned,  looked  troubled,  and  did  not 
bring  any  news  of  Oliver. 

"'Liz'beth  's  lying  down;  she  says  she  has  a 
headache.  Dear  me!  I  hope  the  child  hasn't 
taken  cold,  Jane?  Don't  you  think  you  'd  bet 
ter  give  her  something  hot  to  drink?" 


158  ELIZABETH. 

Mrs.  Sayre's  solicitude  banished  instantly  all 
thought  of  Oliver;  she  went  bustling  up  to  her 
daughter's  room,  full  of  tender  anxiety.  But 
Elizabeth,  lying  white  and  still  upon  the  bed, 
would  only  assure  her,  faintly,  that  she  was  tired ; 
that  her  head  ached;  that  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  with  her;  that  she  didn't  want  any 
thing.  "  Oh,  nothing !  Nothing  !  Only  let  me 
,be  alone,  mother;  and  —  and  perhaps  I  shall 
sleep.  Oh,  won't  you  please  go?"  Distressed 
and  worried,  there  was  nothing  for  Mrs.  Sayre 
to  do  but  kiss  her  daughter,  resting  her  soft  old 
hand  upon  Elizabeth's  forehead,  and  stroking 
her  hair  gently,  with  little  murmuring  sounds  of 
love,  and  then  slip  out  of  the  room,  closing  the 
door  quietly  behind  her. 

When  she  had  gone,  Elizabeth  Sayre  rose, 
with  sudden,  violent  haste ;  she  slipped  the  bolt 
of  her  door,  and  then  fell  upon  her  knees  at  her 
bedside. 

Mrs.  Sayre  knocked  gently  a  few  hours  after 
ward,  but  there  was  no  answer,  and  she  said  to 
Susan  that  Elizabeth  must  be  asleep,  and  sleep 
was  the  best  thing  for  her;  so  she  wouldn't  dis 
turb  her  by  going  in  to  see  how  she  was.  She 
meant  to  let  her  sleep  in  the  morning,  too,  she 
told  her  sister-in-law.  But  when  she  went  down 
to  breakfast  she  found  her  daughter  in  the  sit 
ting-room.  Elizabeth  answered  all  her  mother's 


ELIZABETH.  159 

inquiries,  and  kissed  her  gently,  assuring  her 
that  she  was  quite  well.  A  headache  was  of  no 
consequence,  she  said ;  yet  it  made  her  absent- 
minded,  and  she  did  not  talk  very  much. 
Breakfast  was  almost  over,  Mrs.  Sayre  told  her 
son  afterward,  before  Lizzie  remembered  the 
great  piece  of  news,  and  said,  with  a  sort  of 
start :  — 

"Mother,  Mr.  Hamilton  writes  me  to  say  that 
he  is  very  happy.  Fanny  has  promised  to 
marry  him.  Tom  is  very  much  pleased,  and  I 
—  I  am  so  glad  for  dear  little  Fanny." 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

I. 

WHEN  Friend  Townsend 's  sister  married  the 
son  of  a  man  who  had  been  known  to  be  a  ras 
cal,  the  whole  Townsend  connection  deplored  it 
with  him;  and  they  added  to  their  sympathy 
the  flattery  of  surprise.  Mary  was  not  head 
strong,  they  said,  nor  restless.  She  had  come 
of  generations  of  Friends,  and  that  she  should 
marry  David  Dudley's  son  was  something  of 
which  they  would  not  have  thought  her  capable. 
Among  themselves,  to  be  sure,  some  of  the  con 
nection  recalled  a  time  when  Friend  Townsend 
himself  had  caused  them  a  little  anxiety;  but 
that  was  long  past,  and  then,  too,  he  was  a  man, 
and  that  made  all  the  difference  in  the  world. 
So  Mary's  conduct  in  marrying  Henderson  Dud 
ley  was  as  puzzling  as  it  was  deplorable. 

True,  the  young  man  did  not  in  any  way  re 
semble  his  father;  so  far  as  any  one  knew,  he 
was  honest ;  and  inasmuch  as  he  was  diligent  in 
business,  and  unwilling  to  live  upon  his  wife's 
fortune,  he  might  be  said  to  serve  the  Lord ;  fur- 


AT  WHOSE  DOORT  161 

thermore,  he  had  never  cared  to  look  upon  that 
bad  side  of  life  in  which  David  Dudley  had 
found  his  greatest  delight.  But  he  was  one  of 
the  world's  people,  and  —  he  was  his  father's 
son !  This  was  enough  to  keep  a  commiserating 
sympathy  with  Joseph  Townsend  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  Mary's  relations,  even  after  she  had 
apologized  ^y  dying,  and  Henderson  himself, 
three  years  later,  had  gone  meekly  out  of  the 
world  in  which  he  had  walked  very  silently  and 
blamelessly,  leaving  Mary's  child  as  a  peace- 
offering  to  his  brother-in-law. 

Little  Rachel  was  not  a  Townsend,  Joseph's 
dovelike  wife  used  to  say;  the  spark  in  those 
fierce  dark  eyes,  dimmed  by  sudden  despairing 
tears,  or  dancing  in  mirth  which  "was  not  con 
venient,"  confused  and  perplexed  Sarah.  It  was 
inconceivable  to  her  that  a  child  who  could  lightly 
disobey  her  could  feel  the  love  which  Rachel 
sometimes  protested.  Nor  could  she  reconcile 
a  frankness  that  was  often  cruel  with  an  in 
sincerity  which  was  almost  imtruthfulness,  not 
realizing  that  the  one  might  spring  from  that  ig 
norance  of  suffering  which  is  part  of  the  glory 
of  youth,  and  the  other  from  a  desire  to  say  a 
pleasant  thing  or  a  longing  for  approval.  Each 
day  of  Rachel's  childhood  had  been  full  of  con 
tradictions.  She  would  wound  her  aunt  by  dis 
respect,  and  then  fling  herself  upon  the  ground 


162  AT  WHOSE  DOOE? 

to  kiss  a  pebble  Sarah's  foot  had  touched.  She 
would  strike  a  servant,  but  cry  until  her  great 
brown  eyes  were  almost  blind  because  she  had 
found  a  dead  bird  in  the  garden. 

The  child  loved  Love.  And  yet  this,  her 
strongest  characteristic,  denied  itself  daily  with 
pretense  of  hate,  with  furious  angers,  with  sud 
den  disobediences.  But  had  they  been  read 
aright,  these  things  were  only  the  outcries  and 
pleadings  for  love.  When  Rachel  went  sullenly 
to  bed  without  kissing  her  aunt  good-night,  it 
was  a  pity  no  one  guessed  her  passionate  wish 
that  Joseph's  wife  should  care  enough  about  the 
kiss  to  demand  it.  When  she  ran  half  way  to 
town  trying  to  overtake  the  carriage,  though 
she  had  been  bidden  to  stay  at  home,  it  was  a 
pity  no  one  knew  that  it  was  to  say,  "Forgive 
me  for  looking  cross;  oh,  I  love  thee,  aunt 
Sarah!"  But  of  course  no  one  knew  it,  for 
when  her  disobedience  was  discovered,  the 
grieved  rebuke,  and  the  declaration  that  it  was 
deceit  as  well  as  disobedience,  closed  Rachel's 
lips  to  her  confession.  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  a  pity, 
nothing  more.  Sarah's  deep  and  pathetically 
intense  desire  to  do  her  duty  to  the  child  kept  it 
from  being  anything  more  than  a  pity.  No  one 
could  blame  her,  this  quiet,  righteous,  anxious 
woman,  who  saw  the  child's  bitterness  with  all 
the  uncomprehending  dismay  of  a  sweet,  cold, 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  163 

untempted  soul.  It  was  a  pity,  too,  that  Sarah 
and  Joseph  had  not  had  children  of  their  own ; 
the  companionship  would  have  been  much  to 
little  Rachel,  and  doubtless  her  uncle  and  aunt 
would  have  given  less  thought  and  prayer  to 
her  training  had  there  been  others  to  claim  their 
anxiety  and  their  discipline,  and  so  she  would 
have  been  less  conscious  of  her  own  shortcom 
ings,  —  and  very  likely  there  would  have  been 
fewer  shortcomings.  Certainly  other  children 
would  have  made  her  aware  of  Sarah's  and 
Joseph's  love  for  her,  and  taught  her,  too,  to 
express  her  love  for  them  in  language  they  could 
understand. 

"  Sometimes,  Joseph,  I  think  she  has  not  even 
natural  feeling  for  us,"  Sarah  Townsend  said, 
as  they  sat  together  in  their  still  parlor  one 
September  afternoon.  The  wide,  shining  top 
of  the  mahogany  table  was  between  them,  but 
they  were  not  occupied  with  books  or  writ 
ing.  Friend  Townsend  was  nervously  pulling 
to  pieces  a  blossom  which  had  fallen  from  the 
bunch  of  white-winged  sweet  peas  in  Sarah's 
bosom,  and  his  wife's  hands  were  folded  pla 
cidly  in  her  lap. 

The  shutters  in  the  long  French  windows 
were  bowed,  for  at  midday  it  was  still  warm  on 
the  south  side  of  the  house,  and  three  thin 
streaks  of  sunshine  fell  across  the  drab  carpet, 


164  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

and  touched  the  brass  claws  on  the  feet  of  the 
table,  and  struck  a  glint  from  the  andirons  in 
the  empty  fireplace.  There  were  no  vain  and 
unnecessary  adornments  in  this  room;  two  sil 
houettes  in  narrow-  gilt  frames  hung  high  above 
the  black  wooden  mantelpiece,  and  011  a  rotund 
chest  of  drawers  covered  with  a  plain  linen 
cloth,  stood  a  jug  filled  with  early  goldenrod; 
there  were  shelves  011  either  side  of  the  fire 
place,  full  of  books  in  sober  bindings,  but  there 
was  no  warmth  of  color  in  all  the  bare,  plain 
room,  and  no  pleasant  disorder  of  home  life. 

Sarah  Townsend's  sweet  face  was  still  young 
in  its  serenity,  though  the  hair  beneath  the  del 
icate  fold  of  her  cap  was  as  gray  as  her  silvery 
gown.  Joseph's  dark  eyes  smiled  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"She  must  love  thee,"  he  said;  "don't  thee 
get  discouraged  about  her,  Sarah,  or  I  don't 
know  where  the  child  will  end." 

"I  cannot  be  discouraged,"  she  answered  with 
grave  simplicity,  "for  she  is  in  the  Lord's  hands. 
Yet,  if  she  would  but  trust  us  a  little  more ;  if 
she  would  believe  that  we  desire  only  her  own 
good !  She  would  know  that  if  she  cared  for  us, 
Joseph." 

"Does  thee  think,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  lifting  his  dark,  thin  face  from  his  breast 
and  wrinkling  his  forehead  restlessly,  "does  thee 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR*  165 

think  that  we  trust  her  quite  enough  ?  If  we 
explained  to  her  why  we  were  unwilling  that  she 
should  see  a  play,  it  would  be  less  wearing  to 
us  than  her  perpetual  questioning,  and  it  might 
be  better  for  her  to  have  her  judgment  agree 
with  ours." 

"But  is  it  not  best  that  she  should  learn  the 
habit  of  unquestioning  obedience?"  Sarah  asked 
gently.  "She  ought  to  believe  that  we  know 
what  is  wise  for  her  without  any  explanation." 

"No  doubt  thee 's  right,"  Joseph  assented 
quickly,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair  with 
a  sigh ;  "  it  is  not  best  to  give  reasons  to  a  child. 
But,  Sarah,  suppose,  instead  of  forbidding  it, 
we  let  her  go  ?  She  would  learn,  as  I  did,  how 
empty  all  such  amusement  is,  —  what  hunger  of 
the  soul  it  leaves !  But  to  realize  that,  I  some 
times  think  one  must  see  it  for  one's  self." 

"See  it  for  herself!  "  Sarah  said,  clasping  and 
reclasping  her  delicate  hands,  her  even  voice 
trembling  a  little;  "why,  Joseph,  does  thee  un 
derstand  what  that  means?  'Shall  one  touch 
pitch  and  not  be  defiled  ? '  Thee  knows  I  do 
not  mean  to  be  narrow.  Many  of  the  world's 
people  do  go  to  plays,  and  they  are  pious  people 
according  to  their  light ;  but  we  have  more  light. 
Shall  we  let  the  child  do  wrong  that  she  may 
feel  the  misery  of  sin  ?  Ought  we  not  to  save 
her  such  knowledge  while  we  have  the  power 


166  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

and  the  right  to  restrain  her?  Oh,  Joseph, 
though  thou  didst  learn  to  love  peace  through 
thy  temptations,  remember  thou  art  a  man,  and 
thou  wast  born  a  Friend,  too.  But  think  of 
her  father,  and  her  grandfather!  Remember 
her  impulsive,  ill-balanced  nature;  think  what 
the  effect  might  be." 

"Yes,  thee 's  right,"  Friend  Townsend  said, 
after  a  pause.  "Thee's  always  right.  But  I 
can't  see  why  she  should  want  to  go  so  much. 
It  isn't  as  though  she  had  ever  gone,  and  knew 
the  pleasure  of  it.  Is  it  because  young  Roger 
'Livingstone  asked  her?  Does  she  like  to  be 
with  him,  Sarah?" 

"I  think  it  is  because  we  do  not  wish  it," 
Sarah  answered  with  a  sigh,  "and  perhaps  be 
cause  she  knows  we  do  not  approve  of  Roger 
Livingstone.  It  is  nothing  deeper." 

II. 

The  garden  in  front  of  Friend  Townsend's 
great  gray  house  had  been  touched  by  frost, 
though  the  days  were  languid  with  slumberous 
September  heat;  the  more  delicate  plants  stood 
with  limp,  pallid  leaves  and  hanging  heads,  but 
salvias  blazed  inside  the  box  borders,  and  zinnias 
were  in  coarse  and  riotous  bloom.  There  was  a 
scent  of  decay  and  dampness  in  the  still  air,  in 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  167 

spite  of  the  flooding  sunshine,  and  now  and  then 
a  leaf  floated  slowly  down  from  the  thinning 
branches  of  the  tulip-trees,  through  which  came 
the  distant  flash  and  ripple  of  the  river. 

Rachel  Dudley  stood  leaning  against  the  old 
sun-dial  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  her  chin  rest 
ing  on  her  hand,  and  her  straight  black  brows 
gathered  in  a  sullen  frown. 

She  could  not  be  seen  from  the  house,  for  the 
laburnum  hedge  hid  that  part  of  the  garden,  but 
any  one  passing  the  stone  gateway  might  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  slender  figure  through 
the  osage-orange  trees  which  bordered  the  dusty 
turnpike.  And  Roger  Livingstone  was  watch 
ing  for  her,  as  he  made  his  horse  walk  past  the 
line  of  Friend  Townsend's  estate;  so  he  was 
quick  to  dismount  and  throw  the  bay's  bridle 
over  the  stone  ball  on  one  of  the  ivy-covered 
gate-posts,  and  then  open  the  tall  iron  gate,  and 
hurry  down  the  steps  into  the  damp  stillness  of 
the  garden. 

Roger  and  Rachel  had  known  each  other  for 
many  years,  but  in  spite  of  perpetual  quarrel 
ing  it  had  never  occurred  to  Roger  to  fall  in 
love  with  her,  —  at  least  until  very  lately,  and 
then  only  because  his  father  had  looked  at  him 
one  day  with  shrewd  good-nature  and  said :  "  Re 
member,  boy,  the  pretty  Quakeress  has  a  for 
tune  of  her  own." 


168  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

That  had  made  Roger  think;  but,  after  all, 
could  a  fortune  give  a  man  happiness,  if  the  girl 
was  first  jealous  and  then  indifferent,  and  al 
ways  quick  to  take  offense  ?  Roger  thought  not ; 
but  he  liked  Rachel,  and  while  he  was  making 
up  his  mind  he  was  involuntarily  and  uncon 
sciously  more  friendly.  A  young  man  cannot 
contemplate  marrying  a  girl,  even  as  a  remote 
possibility,  and  avoid,  in  his  most  ordinary  con 
versation  with  her,  a  betrayal  of  the  attitude  of 
his  mind. 

After  these  careless  words  about  the  pretty 
Quakeress  and  the  fortune,  Roger  found  a  new 
pleasure  in  meeting  Rachel ;  but  he  felt,  vaguely, 
that  Friend  Townsend  did  not  like  him,  and 
so  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  seeing  her  oftener 
in  the  old  irarden  than  in  her  uncle's  house.  In 

o 

these  meetings,  he  did  not  speak  to  her  of  the 
happy  interests  of  more  worldly  youth.  lie 
could  not  talk  of  this  harmless  diversion  or  of 
that  pretty  folly,  a  ball,  or  a  dance,  or  the  hun 
dred  gayeties  that  belonged  to  their  years,  be 
cause  Rachel  knew  nothing  about  them.  The 
only  thing  that  he  could  give  or  that  she  could 
receive  was  sympathy  for  what  she  chose  to  con 
sider  the  loneliness  of  her  life. 

Roger  knew  that  this  sympathy  gave  her  plea 
sure,  so,  being  a  good-natured  fellow,  he  was 
willing  enough  to  condole  with  her.  Further- 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  169 

more,  the  half  secrecy  o£  their  meetings  here 
in  the  garden,  or  along  some  shadowy  path  be 
side  the  river,  had  a  charm  for  him,  to  which 
his  father's  hint  had  added  a  pleasing  excite 
ment  of  uncertainty  as  to  his  future  sentiments 
towards  her.  He  was  eager  now  to  know  if  his 
plan  of  taking  her  to  the  theatre  on  Saturday 
afternoon  could  be  carried  out. 

"Well?"  he  said,  as  he  reached  her  side. 
She  glanced  up  for  a  moment  from  under  her 
frowning  brows  at  his  handsome,  boyish  face,  as 
he  stood  striking  at  his  riding  boots  with  his 
switch  and  waiting  for  her  reply. 

"It  is  no  use,  they  won't  let  me  go,"  she 
said,  gloomily,  not  even  lifting  her  chin  from 
her  slim  brown  hand. 

He  turned  sharply  on  his  heel,  his  spur  grind 
ing  down  into  the  damp  moss  of  the  path.  For 
an  instant  he  was  too  much  disappointed  to 
speak. 

"It 's  outrageous !  "  he  cried,  "upon  my  word, 
it 's  outrageous!  They  're  cruel,  I  tell  you,  Ra 
chel,  they  're  absolutely  cruel!  " 

"They  don't  care,"  Rachel  said  briefly. 

"I'd  go,  anyhow,"  Roger  continued  an 
grily;  "why  on  earth  should  you  give  up  every 
thing  to  please  people  who  don't  care  anything 
about  you  anyway  ?  " 

Rachel  winced.  "I  know  they  don't,"  she 
said. 


170  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

"Well,  then,  make  up  your  mind  to  go," 
Roger  ended;  "it  isn't  as  though  they  had  any 
reason  for  saying  you  shouldn't.  Of  course, 
in  any  reasonable  thing,  I  would  n't  advise  you 
to  —  to  disobey  them.  But  this  is  folly,  Ra 
chel.  Honestly,  I  believe  I  'd  go!  " 

"Of  course  it  is  not  reasonable,"  Rachel 
cried  passionately.  "  Why,  if  they  would  give 
me  a  good  reason,  I  would  n't  say  another  word. 
They  just  tell  me,  'It  isn't  best/  and  if  I  say 
'Why?  '  aunt  Sarah  says,  'Thee  must  trust  thy 
uncle  and  me. '  Trust  them !  "  and  she  laughed, 
"they  won't  let  me  go  because  they  want  to 
disappoint  me.  I  will  trust  them  to  do  that ! ' 

"Why,  they  make  a  business  of  being  disa 
greeable  to  you,  don't  they?"  Roger  condoled, 
his  flash  of  boyish  anger  gone. 

"  They  think  it  makes  people  good  to  be  dis 
appointed,"  Rachel  said,  with  that  contempt 
which  seems  to  youth  so  withering.  "And  they 
want  to  make  me  good,  they  think  I  am  so 
wicked.  Oh,  I  am  —  I  am !  but  if  they  thought 
anything  good  of  me  I  could  be  good,  it  seems 
to  me;  or  if  they  loved  me  the  least  bit,  I 
would  not  mind  giving  up  everything  in  the 
world  for  them,  everything!  But  they  don't 
care  whether  I  am  alive  or  dead!"  She  laid 
her  cheek  down  on  the  hot  face  of  the  dial  and 
sobbed. 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  171 

" Don't  cry,"  Roger  said  sympathetically; 
"what  good  does  it  do  to  cry?  Why  don't  you 
just  go,  anyhow?  I  believe  they  'd  respect  you 
more  if  you  had  a  will  of  your  own.  And  it 
is  n't  as  if  they  were  your  own  father  and  mo 
ther,  you  know." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  I  can't  !  Thee 
knows  1  can't.  And  it  isn't  that  I  want  to  go 
to  the  theatre  so  very  much,  Roger.  If  they 
had  only  said  I  shouldn't,  differently.  It's 
the  way  they  said  it.  As  though  I  was  wicked 
to  want  such  a  thing ;  a  kind  of  despair  about 
me ;  and  yet  as  if,  after  all,  it  was  only  to  be 
expected  of  me.  I  might  as  well  live  up  to  it. 
I  might  as  well  be  as  bad  as  they  think  I  am  ! " 

Her  quick  transition  from  grief  to  anger 
dried  her  tears.  Roger  did  not  know  what  to 
say;  his  somewhat  slow  mind  could  not  keep 
pace  with  her  sudden  changes,  and  her  gusts  of 
feeling  wearied  him. 

He  glanced  at  his  horse,  cropping  the  grass 
about  the  gate-post,  and  rubbing  his  velvety 
nose  against  the  reddening  ivy  leaves. 

Rachel  noticed  his  look  and  feared  he  was 
going  to  leave  her.  "I  believe  thee 's  right, 
Roger,"  she  said.  "I  believe  I  ought  to  live 
my  life  in  my  own  way,  to  make  them  respect 
me.  I  will  go  I" 

Roger   looked   at   her  with   admiration,  yet 


172  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

there  was  a  little  doubt  in  his  voice  as  he  said: 
"It  's  the  only  thing  to  do,  Rachel;  only  —  of 
course  —  you  don't  want  to  make  them  very 
angry?" 

"I  don't  care  how  angry  they  are!"  she 
cried;  "it  isn't  as  if  they  loved  me." 

"Or  as  if  you  loved  them,"  Roger  said. 
"Only  —  think  it  over,  Rachel.  I  don't  know; 
somehow,  I  don't  feel  quite  sure." 

"JT  feel  sure,"  she  answered,  striking  her 
hands  sharply  together;  "but,  oh,  I  do  love 
them  —  I  do!  I  do!  And  they  don't  want  my 
love!" 

Roger  tried  awkwardly  to  comfort  her,  but 
he  felt  as  though  he  would  rather  give  up  the 
theatre  than  have  any  more  tears,  and  he  began 
to  think  he  had  been  rash  to  urge  her  to  go. 

But  Rachel  had  decided.  There  was  a  bitter 
joy  in  making  herself  as  bad  as  her  uncle  and 
aunt  thought  her. 

"They  expect  me  to  be  disobedient;  they  are 
always  watching  for  it;  so  I  '11  go,  Roger!  " 

III. 

It  was  not,  however,  quite  easy  to  go  into 
town  on  Saturday. 

"Why  does  thee  start  so  early,  Rachel?" 
Sarah  Townsend  said,  as  her  niece  put  on  her 


AT  WHOSE  DOOEf  173 

little  drab  bonnet  immediately  after  the  noon 
dinner;  "thee  will  have  a  long  afternoon  in 
town.  I  wish  thee  was  not  such  a  gad-about. 
I  wish  thee  loved  thy  home." 

"Thee  will  not  miss  me,"  Eachel  answered, 
with  the  bitterness  of  premeditated  disobedi 
ence.  She  was  already  beginning  to  feel  re 
morse,  and  was  blaming  her  aunt  for  her  suffer 
ing.  "If  thee  thinks  I  am  a  gad-about,  aunt 
Sarah,  I  don't  see  how  thee  can  expect  me  to 
love  my  home.  I  don't  see  how  I  can." 

Eachel' s  fingers  trembled  as  she  smoothed 
the  gray  ribbons  under  her  chin.  But  Sarah's 
quiet  sigh,  as  she  said,  "Thee  need  not  try  to 
show  me  how  little  thee  cares  for  thy  home,  —  I 
know  it  too  well,"  was  like  wind  upon  the  fire. 

Kachel  flung  back  some  sharp  untruth  as  she 
opened  the  white  front  door  and  let  herself  out 
into  the  sunshine.  But  there  was  a  sob  in  her 
throat,  and  her  eyes  were  stung  with  unshed 
tears  which  blurred  the  spray  of  salvia  she 
stuck  in  her  dress.  "I  won't  look  any  more 
like  a  Friend  than  I  can  help!  "  she  said  hotly, 
as  she  picked  the  flaming  blossom,  knowing  how 
such  a  thought  would  wound  her  aunt.  But  she 
did  not  need  the  salvia.  Her  vivid  face  was  not 
in  harmony  with  her  quiet  bonnet  and  gown; 
she  looked  like  one  of  the  world's  people  mas 
querading  as  a  Quakeress. 


174  AT 

Roger  watched,  with  a  growing  fascination, 
her  kindling  eyes  and  her  childlike  tears  and 
laughter  a.-*  the  play  progressed.  He  even  won 
dered,  as  they  left  the  2'lare  of  the  theatre  and 
came  out  into  the  soft  dusk  of  the  autumn  after 
noon,  whether  he  was  not  very  much  in  love 
with  this  strange,  wild,  pitiful  creature,  whose 
restless,  throb b ing  life  beat  against  the  calm  of 
her  home. 

In  his  uncertainty,  and  his  pleasure  in  her 
pleasure,  and  the  charm  of  stolen  excitement, 
he  was  almost  tender  to  her.  —  very  kind  to  her. 
Rachel  thought.  He  could  not  help  telling  her. 
too.  how  lovely  he  thought  her  face  was.  "anl 
those  little  soft  rinxs  of  hair.  Rachel,  round 
your  temples,  are  so  pretty ! 

Rachel  grew  scarlet.  No  one  had  ever  said 
such  a  thin-2  to  her.  She  trembled  a  little,  and 
looked  at  him  with  such  beautiful,  appealing 
eyes,  that  Roger  said  more  of  the  same  nature. 
He  spoke  of  the  happiness  it  was  to  be  near 
her,  and  how  much  he  hoped  that  in  the  future 
she  would  not  forget  him  —  (  "  Forget  thee  ? 
Why.  Roger.  I  have  known  thee  all  my  life. 
How  could  I  forget  thte?"  she  said,  simply)  — 
and  he  observed  that  life  for  him  had  not  muc-h 
to  offer  now.  He  had  loved,  but  that  was  in 
his  youth.  There  had  been  a  girl  once  —  But 
he  would  tell  her  about  that  some  other  time. 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  175 

He  would  only  say  now  that  he  had  suffered  as 
few  men  ever  had  suffered  —  (though  "she  "  was 
entirely  unworthy,  as  he  afterwards  discovered 
when  she  married  some  one  else).  But  that  was 
all  in  the  past,  he  told  Rachel,  and  he  felt  that 
the  ashes  of  memory  might  kindle  again  if  she 
would  but  be  his  friend. 

Upon  reflection,  afterwards,  Roger  felt  that 
all  this  had  been  very  unwise.  Not  that  he  had 
committed  himself  in  any  way :  on  the  contrary, 
he  had  given  Rachel  to  understand  that  although 
his  heart,  buried  in  those  ashes  of  memory,  was 
capable  of  being  kindled,  it  was  with  no  warmer 
flame  than  friendship.  "  But  girls  are  so  silly ; 
they're  always  misunderstanding  things,"  he 
thought  guiltily.  And  so  there  were  times  dur 
ing  the  next  week,  while  the  remembrance  of 
this  indiscretion  was  fresh,  that  he  tried  to  undo 
his  words  by  being  a  little  less  than  friendly; 
such  an  attempt,  however,  was  always  followed 
by  a  burst  of  pity  for  her,  and  then  admiration, 
and  then  something  strangely  like  tenderness. 
As  for  her,  every  word  he  so  rashly  said  that 
afternoon  went  deep  into  her  heart,  and  no  tem 
porary  coldness  in  him  could  make  her  forget 
them. 

In  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of  the  play  Ra 
chel  lost  sight  of  everything  else.  Her  gladness 
made  the  whole  world  seem  loving  and  lovable. 


176  AT  WHOSE  DOGE? 

"Oh,  Roger,"  she  said,  "it  was  beautiful! 
Let's  come  again." 

"We  can  come  every  Saturday  afternoon,  if 
you  only  will,"  he  answered  eagerly,  "and  it 
will  be  better  each  time,  and  Friend  Townsend 
and  your  aunt  will  see  that  it  does  n't  do  any 
harm." 

Rachel's  face  fell.  "I  had  forgotten  them," 
she  said.  And  when  Roger  left  her  at  the  sun 
dial,  and  she  hurried  through  the  garden  to  the 
big,  silent  house,  there  was  no  defiance  in  her 
heart ;  nothing  but  frightened  dismay  and  peni 
tence. 

The  lamps  were  not  lighted  in  the  hall,  only 
the  faint  September  twilight  struggled  in 
through  the  funlike  window  over  the  front  door, 
but  Rachel  could  see  the  disapproval  on  her 
aunt's  face.  Sarah  Townsend  was  standing  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  staircase,  waiting  to  speak 
to  her  niece,  before  going  into  the  dining-room 
to  see  that  the  candles  were  lighted  for  tea. 
She  was  fresh  from  her  simple  toilet-table ;  in 
the  clear,  fine  folds  of  her  kerchief  were  some 
rose-geranium  leaves,  and  the  spotless  muslin  of 
her  cap  rested  upon  the  shining  smoothness  of 
her  gray  hair.  Her  exquisite,  fragrant  neat 
ness  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  Rachel's  flushed 
face;  rebellious  curls  were  blown  across  the 
girl's  eyes  and  above  the  brim  of  her  bonnet; 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR!  177 

her  shawl,  too,  was  awry,  and  she  had  torn  one 
glove  as  she  tried  to  pull  it  off. 

"I  hoped,"  said  Sarah  gravely,  "thee  would 
come  out  by  an  earlier  train." 

"I  told  thee  I  was  coming  at  five,"  Rachel 
answere'd,  with  the  quick  thought  that  perhaps 
her  aunt  had  missed  her.  "  If  thee  had  told  me 
that  thee  wanted  me,  I"-  Then  she  stopped 
abruptly,  realizing  that  she  could  not  have  come 
before.  "Why  did  n't  thee  tell  me?  Thee 
knows,  aunt  Sarah,  the  only  thing  in  the  world 
I  want  to  do  is  just  to  please  thee!"  Confes 
sion  was  trembling  upon  Rachel's  lips. 

"I  want  thee  to  want  to  come,  Rachel," 
Sarah  said  simply,  and  then  with  her  gentle 
footfall  she  went  into  the  dining-room,  and 
standing  at  the  narrow  sideboard,  with  its  slen 
der  carved  legs  and  inlaid  doors  and  drawers, 
she  began  to  light  the  candles  in  four 'tall  can 
dlesticks.  Rachel  followed  her,  with  that  feel 
ing  of  aggravation  which  comes  when  trying  to 
talk  to  a  person  who  is  walking  away  from  one, 
and  with  an  instant  resolution  to  be  heard. 
Sarah  had  lighted  a  spill  at  the  blue  flames  of 
the  apple -wood  fire,  and  was  slowly  touching  the 
candle-wicks  with  it.  Its  delicate  glow  shone 
on  her  serious  face.  She  looked  up  at  Rachel. 

"  At  least  thee  knows  it  does  not  please  me 
to  see  thee  so  untidy,"  she  said. 


178  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

"Of  course  thee  thinks  I  would  n't  have  come 
if  thee  had  said  thee  wanted  me,"  Rachel  cried; 
"and  I  couldn't  help  the  wind  blowing." 

"If  thee  cannot  speak  respectfully  thee  can 
at  least  be  silent,"  Sarah  answered  calmly. 
Then  with  her  quiet  step  she  again  passed  the 
girl  and  went  into  the  parlor,  grieved  in  her 
kind,  just  heart  at  the  antagonism  in  Rachel's 
voice.  And  Rachel,  in  her  small,  orderly 
room,  gave  no  thought  to  repentance,  but  lived 
over  again  the  excitement  of  the  afternoon,  and 
Roger's  kindness  in  taking  her,  and  the  sound 
of  his  voice  in  those  new  words  he  spoke.  "I 
will  go  again '"she  said  to  herself .  And  she 
did. 

IV. 

The  miserable  consciousness  of  deceit  can 
not  be  entirely  escaped  even  in  the  height  of 
enjoyment,  and  the  theatre  never  seemed  so 
pleasant  to  Rachel  again.  Indeed,  except  that 
it  gave  her  Roger's  companionship,  upon  which 
she  was  more  and  more  dependent,  she  would 
not  have  cared  to  go;  and  even  his  companion 
ship  did  not  persuade  her  more  than  two  or 
three  times,  after  which  her  efforts  to  escape  the 
stings  of  conscience  were  very  apparent. 

Remorse  began  to  stain  all  her  interests,  and 
even  her  few  pleasures.  Remorse  is  a  very 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  179 

dreadful  pain  to  the  young.  They  have  not  the 
experience  of  years  of  wrong-doing  to  teach 
them  that  there  will  come  times  of  ease  from 
that  weight  and  ache  below  the  breast-bone, 
that  sick  feeling  of  remembrance  intruding  upon 
their  happy  and  forgetful  moments;  still  less 
can  they  grasp  the  relief  of  hoping  that  remorse 
may  end  altogether.  Rachel,  for  mere  pain  of  her 
sin,  sinned  again  to  forget  the  pain.  She  was 
only  happy  with  Roger,  but  the  last  expedition 
to  the  theatre  left  her  more  unhappy  than  be 
fore.  She  was  strangely  restless ;  she  took  long 
walks  alone,  simply  for  occupation,  or  hurried 
into  the  city  and  out  again  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  divert  her  thoughts  from  her  disobedi 
ence.  She  went  over  and  over  in  her  mind 
terms  in  which  she  might  confess  what  she  had 
done  —  for  it  would  be  such  a  relief  to  confess ! 
But  the  thought  of  her  aunt's  dismay,  which 
would  have  in  it  no  surprise,  made  the  child 
shrink  back  into  herself. 

Sarah  Townsend  saw  the  restlessness  with 
concern,  but  she  could  have  no  conception  of 
its  redeeming  cause.  Yet  it  was  not  until  one 
November  afternoon  that  she  spoke  of  it  to  her 
husband. 

"  I  have  not  wanted  thee  to  think  less  well  of 
the  child  than  thee  does,  Joseph,"  she  ended 
anxiously,  "and  so  I  have  not  told  thee  that  I 


180  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

was  troubled  about  her ;  sometimes  I  think  thy 
judgments  are  almost  harsh,  because  thy  ideal 
is  so  high.  But  it  shows  such  unrest,  this  run 
ning  about  so  much.  She  ought  to  wish  to  be  at 
home.  Home  is  the  Lord's  place  for  a  modest 
young  woman ;  it  is  an  unregenerate  and  shallow 
mind  which  demands  constant  recreation." 

uYes,  yes,  that  is  true,"  Friend  Townsend 
answered.  He  rose,  and  began  to  walk  ner 
vously  about  the  room.  "It  must  be  stopped," 
he  said.  "We  must  remember  her  heritage 

O 

from  her  grandfather,  and  insist  upon  a  quieter 
life  and  a  contented  mind.  I  am  glad  young 
Eoger  Livingstone  has  gone  in  town.  Sarah! 
thee  does  not  think  she  sees  him  there?" 

He  paused  beside  her  chair  in  sudden  anxiety. 

"Oh,  Joseph,  no!"  she  cried,  "how  can  thee 
think  of  such  a  thing !  It  is  only  the  restlessness 
of  youth  which  seeks  any  occupation  but  duty. 
A  woman  of  thy  family  could  not  so  forget  her 
self."  With  all  its  gentleness,  there  was  a  calm 
pride  in  Sarah's  face  as  she  said  this.  "But  we 
must  stop  her  going  into  the  city  so  much;  that 
impulsive,  inconsequent  nature  of  hers  must  be 
trained  to  self-control.  Will  thee  speak  to  her, 
or  shall  I?" 

"Oh,  thee,  thee,"  Joseph  said.  "But,  Sarah, 
why  did  thee  not  put  a  stop  to  it  long  ago? " 

"Because,"  she  answered,   sadly,  "there  are 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  181 

so  many  commands  to  give.  I  have  to  reprove 
her  so  often.  She  does  not  know  how  much  I 
dread  to  find  fault ;  and  she  is  so  ready  to  be 
angry !  It  seems  to  alienate  her,  too,  and  make 
her  more  unloving,  when  I  do  admonish  her. 
She  cannot  see  that  it  is  only  because  I  love 
her  that  I  do  it,  —  but  thee  knows  I  love  her, 
Joseph?" 

The  wistful  tremor  in  her  even  voice  gave  her 
husband  a  shock  of  pain. 

"She  has  an  evil  nature, "he  said  angrily,  "if 
she  can  bear  to  make  thee  grieve." 

Yet,  as  they  sat  waiting  for  Rachel  to  come 
home  from  a  long  walk  in  the  cold,  gray  after 
noon,  his  heart  melted  toward  the  child;  and 
when  at  last  she  entered  the  quiet  room,  he  rose 
and  left  it,  though  in  a  silence  she  thought 
stern.  By  himself  in  the  hall,  he  struck  his 
hands  together  with  a  gesture  strangely  unlike 
his  usual  calm.  "Poor  Rachel,"  he  said,  "poor 
child!"  His  head  sank  upon  his  breast  as  he 
walked  restlessly  about.  Joseph  Townseiid  was 
remembering  many  things. 

Rachel  was  in  a  softened  mood  when  she  came 
into  the  parlor.  In  her  walk  along  the  river 
path  she  had  been  thinking  that,  after  all,  life 
might  be  very  beautiful  if  there  were  love  in  it; 
—  and  Roirer  loved  her !  She  was  sure  of  that. 

& 

Yes,  a  girl  might  be  very  glad  to  be  alive,  if 


182  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

there  were  love  in  life,  and  one  tried  to  be  good, 
—  and  she  meant  to  be  good  hereafter.  Of 
late  she  had  been  living  in  a  dream  of  Roger, 
into  which  the  real  man  had  not  entered.  She 
had  not  noticed  his  efforts  at  commonplace 
friendliness,  for  they  were  so  genuine  there  could 
be  no  sting  in  them,  and  beside  they  alternated 
with  that  talk  about  'friendship'  which  is  such 
subtile  love-making.  It  needed  something  sharp 
to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  her  own  construction 
of  his  looks  and  words  had  wrapped  her.  That 
afternoon,  in  the  glow  of  content  about  her  heart, 
she  forgot  for  a  little  while  her  remorse;  and 
when  she  remembered  it  all,  her  contrition  was 
subtly  pervaded  by  her  joy. 

"Rachel,"  Sarah  said,  in  her  low,  even  voice, 
glancing  at  the  girl,  who  stood  resting  her  fore 
head  on  the  edge  of  the  mantelpiece  and  idly 
unfastening  her  bonnet,  "thy  uncle  and  I  feel 
that  thy  taking  such  long  walks,  and  going  so 
often  into  town  for  no  purpose,  is  but  idling 
away  thy  time,  and  we  think  it  best  for  thee  to 
put  a  stop  to  it.  We  need  not  discuss  it,  but 
just  remember  what  I  say." 

Rachel  did  not  speak,  and  her  aunt,  thinking 
it  was  sullen  acquiescence,  added,  "It  is  for  thy 
own  good;  we  are  sorry  to  cross  thee." 

The  pleading  in  Sarah's  tone  touched  the  child ; 
an  impulse  of  love  and  repentance  and  happiness 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  183 

sent  the  tears  brimming  into  her  eyes.  "Oh, 
aunt  Sarah,"  she  said,  "I  won't  do  anything 
thee  doesn't  want  me  to,  but  —  but  —  I  have; 
and  I  am  so  sorry!  " 

Sarah  Townsend  looked  up  at  her  with  sud 
den  tenderness  and  hope.  "If  thee  is  really 
sorry  it  will  be  easy  for  thee  to  please  us,  my 
dear." 

At  that  unusual,  almost  unknown  word,  Ra 
chel's  reserve  gave  way.  She  flung  her  bonnet 
on  the  floor  and  sank  upon  her  knees  beside  her 
aunt,  hiding  her  face  in  Sarah's  lap.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  begun  her  confession;  and 
she  was  already  comforted,  and  restored  in  her 
own  eyes ;  she  did  not  realize  that  confession  is 
relief,  not  remission. 

"It  isn't  just  the  going  in  town,"  she  said, 
her  voice  shaken  with  tears.  "I  have  done 
wrong,  aunt  Sarah.  Oh,  I  have  been  so  wicked 
—  so  wicked !  Thee  can  never,  never,  never 


\orgive  me ! 


Scenes  like  this  seemed  to  Sarah  Townsend 
to  lack  genuineness.  It  was  not  necessary  to  be 
dramatic.  "Thee  must  not  throw  thy  bonnet 
on  the  floor,  Rachel,"  she  replied  calmly,  "and 
thee  must  be  more  composed.  Instead  of  cry 
ing,  just  make  up  thy  mind  to  be  a  good  girl." 

But  Rachel  could  not  check  her  impetuous 
remorse,  "I  did  not  think  it  was  really  wrong 


184  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

when  I  did  it.  I  do  not  believe  I  stopped  to 
think  at  all.  Oh,  aunt  Sarah,  aunt  Sarah,  I 
am  so  wicked!  I  have  been  going  into  town 
and  —  and  —  meeting  Roger,  and" 

Sarah  put  her  hands  on  the  girl's  shoulders 
and  lifted  her  with  a  sharp  push. 

"What  does  thee  mean,  Rachel?"  she  said. 

At  the  change  in  her  voice,  Rachel  knelt  up 
right,  brushing  her  hair  back  from  her  startled 
eyes,  and  looking  wonderingly  at  her  aunt. 

"What  does  thee  mean  about  Roger  Living 
stone?"  Sarah  repeated,  with  something  which 
was  almost  terror  in  her  tone. 

"Oh,  aunt  Sarah,"  the  girl  faltered,  trying 
to  hide  her  face  on  her  aunt's  knees,  but  held 
back  by  the  relentless  hands,  "I  have  been  to 
the  theatre  with  Roger,  that 's  all." 

"All!  "  Sarah  exclaimed,  half  with  relief  and 
half  with  indignant  protest. 

"Yes,"  Rachel  said,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  sobbing;  "yes,  that's  what  I 
went  in  town  for,  three  afternoons  last  month." 

Sarah  could  not  speak ;  she  felt  almost  faint. 
She  did  not  see  that  Rachel  had  put  her  heart 
into  her  hands  for  good  or  ill ;  only  the  deceit, 
the  disobedience,  the  dismay  at  Roger's  influ 
ence,  pressed  upon  her.  She  bent  her  sweet, 
stern  face  upon  her  breast  and  groaned. 

Rachel  shivered.      "Oh,  I  am  so  sorry, — I 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  185 

am  so  sorry.  I  will  be  good  after  this,  always. 
I  will  be  good!" 

"Perhaps  thee  cannot  be  good,  Rachel,"  Sa 
rah  said  in  a  broken  voice,  speaking  involunta 
rily  her  thought  that  it  might  be  that  the  child 
was  not  altogether  responsible  for  this  warped 
moral  nature;  and  that  perhaps,  too,  her  own 
severity,  which  had  seemed  a  duty,  had  but  made 
things  worse.  "Thee  has  deceived  us  as  well 

& 

as  disobeyed  us,"  she  said  sadly,  and  paused, 
but  Rachel  did  not  speak;  "and  thee  can  find 
pleasure  in  the  companionship  of  such  a  man  as 
Roger  Livingstone,  — thee,  Joseph's  niece!  " 

Rachel  rose,  the  softness  frozen,  the  tender 
ness  bitter.  "I  have  deceived  thee,  but  I  am 
sorry.  I  have  asked  thee  to  forgive  me.  I  am 
sorry.  I  don't  see  what  more  I  can  say."  She 
had  that  feeling,  —  which  often  comes  with  con 
fession,  —  that  by  confession  the  sin  is  atoned 
for;  and  with  it  a  sense  of  injury,  almost  anger, 
that  her  listener  should  feel  surprise  or  grief. 
She  resented  Sarah's  dismay  as  unjust  and 
cruel.  "I've  told  thee  about  it;  I  don't  see 
what  else  I  can  do,"  she  said  sullenly,  tying  the 
fringe  of  her  gray  shawl  into  knots,  and  never 
lifting  her  eyes  to  her  aunt's  face.  "There  is 
nothing  wrong  in  being  glad  to  see  Roger.  If 
he  'd  been  welcome  here,  I  need  n't  have  seen 
him  anywhere  else,  and  —  and  —  I  like  to  be 
with  Roger." 


186  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

Sarah  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  without 
speaking;  then  she  said  abruptly,  " Rachel,  has 
Roger  asked  thee  to  marry  him  ?  I  ask  thee, 
though  I  am  not  sure  that  thee  will  tell  me 
the  truth."  Sarah  was  quite  calm  now,  but 
her  mind  was  confused  between  distress  at  this 
foolish  defiance,  and  the  far  deeper  grief  of  the 
girl's  deceit.  Rachel's  lips  parted  and  then 
closed  again.  She  hung  her  head  in  silence. 
"Answer  me,  Rachel." 

But  Rachel  could  not  speak. 

"Does  thee  mean,"  Sarah  said  incisively, 
"that  thee  cares  for  a  man  who  does  not  care 
for  thee?  And  that,  to  be  with  him,  thee  has 
been  willing  to  deceive  and  disobey  thy  uncle 
and  aunt?  —  thee  has  taken  a  lie  upon  thy  soul? 
Rachel,  I  have  known  that  thee  did  not  love  us, 
and  did  not  cheerfully  obey  us,  but  I  never  knew 
that  thy  heart  was  filled  with  deceit,  and  that 
thee  had  not  the  modesty  of  the  young  women 
of  thy  family.  Does  thee  think  we  can  ever  trust 
thee  again?  " 

Rachel  stood  without  any  words,  trembling 
and  panting  like  some  wounded  animal.  She 
had  no  thought  of  self-defense ;  it  was  only  pain. 

"Thee  may  go  to  thy  room,"  Sarah  said  after 
a  long  silence;  "thy  uncle  and  I  will  try  and 
decide  what  had  best  be  done." 

Without  a  word  Rachel  turned  and  fled  out 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  187 

into  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs.  She  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  uncle  walking  calmly  up  and 
down  between  the  tall  white  lilies  in  Sarah's 
conservatory.  He  would  have  to  be  told !  She 
scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  until  she  reached 
her  own  room,  and  shut  and  locked  the  door, 
and  then  leaned  against  it  for  support.  Her 
heart  was  pounding  in  her  throat;  her  eyes 
were  blurred  and  stinging,  but  without  tears. 
She  heard  the  parlor  door  open  and  close,  a-nd 
knew  that  Joseph  was  listening  to  the  story  of 
her  guilt. 

"I  cannot  bear  it!  "  she  said  aloud;  "no;  no: 
I  cannot  bear  it." 

A  gleam. of  joy  came  to  her  in  the  thought 
that  it  could  not  be  borne ;  it  meant  escape  from 
intolerable  pain,  though  she  could  not  yet  see 
by  what  means.  Her  mind  even  darted  forward 
to  contemplate  a  time  of  peace,  and  she  vaguely 
thought  of  a  day  when  she  should  look  back 
upon  this  misery  —  But  no,  it  was  too  terrible 
ever  to  be  looked  back  upon !  Pity  for  herself 
made  her  sob  aloud,  and  without  knowing  that 
she  was  only  choosing  the  lesser  anguish  she 
began  to  say,  "It  is  all  because  they  are  angry 
about  Roger."  She  could  not  face  the  truth,  that 
her  pain  and  theirs  was  because  of  her  deceit. 
It  was  a  little  easier  to  say,  "  They  are  angry  that 
Roger  should  care  for  me."  By  and  by  a  means 


188  AT  WHOSE  DOORf 

of  escaping  from  pain  by  action  began  to  grow 
clear  to  her.  She  would  go  and  tell  Roger.  In 
her  proud,  innocent  heart,  Sarah's  assertion  that 
she  cared  for  a  man  who  did  not  care  for  her 
left  no  sting,  save  the  bitterness  that  her  aunt 
should  have  said  it. 

"I'll  tell  Roger,"  she  said  over  and  over 
again  to  herself,  for  his  very  name  comforted 
her. 

V. 

The  warm,  fragrant  air  of  the  conservatory, 
and  the  silent  beauty  of  Sarah's  stately  lilies, 
had  made  Joseph  Townsend  less  restless.  He 
almost  forgot  his  anxiety  about  Rachel,  and 
when  he  came  into  the  parlor  he  was  greatly 
startled  and  alarmed  to  find  his  wife  hiding  her 
face  in  her  arms  upon  the  table,  her  quick 
breath  showing  that  she  was  in  tears. 

"Tell  me,  Sarah!  "  he  said.  But  it  was  some 
moments  before  she  could  speak,  and  then  she 
said  brokenly:  "Joseph,  Rachel  has  been  de 
ceiving  us.  She  has  confessed  it,  though  she  is 
not  really  repentant.  Think  how  we  have  failed 
in  our  duty  to  her,  if  such  sin  is  possible  in  the 
poor  child!  "  Then  she  told  him,  faltering  with 
grief  and  shame,  of  the  deception;  but,  with  a 
tender  instinct  to  spare  Rachel,  she  said  nothing 
of  what  she  felt  to  be  the  girl's  infatuation  for 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  189 

Eoger  Livingstone.  After  all,  that  was  the  least 
important.  "But,  Joseph,"  she  ended,  "think 
how  far  we  have  let  her  drift  from  us,  that  she 
could  deceive  us!  Oh,  I  have  sinned  in  this; 
it  is  my  fault  —  not  Kachel's.  She  does  not 
love  us,  after  all  these  years,  but  it  is  because 
I  have  been  unworthy  of  the  charge  of  one  of 
His  little  ones!" 

He  tried  to  comfort  her  and  tell  her  she  was 
wrong,  but  for  once  the  brave,  silent  woman 
was  broken ;  she  would  not  listen,  and  by  and  by 
went  to  her  own  bedroom,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  floor  in  despairing  condemnation  of  herself. 
Her  heart  ached  for  Rachel,  yet  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  to  go  and  comfort  the  child;  indeed,  she 
would  have  felt  it  wrong  to  have  seemed  to 
excuse  the  sin  too  readily;  but,  even  had  it 
occurred  to  her,  it  was  too  late. 

Rachel's  vague  purpose  of  telling  Roger  had 
assumed  a  definite  form.  There  was  a  train 
into  town  that  she  could  take  which  would  make 
it  possible  for  her  to  see  the  young  man  before 
he  went  out  for  the  evening.  And  she  would 
tell  him  all  about  it,  and  he  —  he  would  tell  her 
how  to  act!  She  had  a  confused  thought  of 
finding  a  place  to  board  and  some  work  to  do, 
but  underneath  this  purpose  was  the  wordless 
conviction  that  Roger  would  take  care  of  her. 
She  did  not  think,  "He  will  ask  me  to  marry 
him;"  she  only  felt  it. 


190  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

At  last  she  rose  from  crouching  against  the 
door,  and  with  trembling  little  hands  put  on 
her  dove-colored  bonnet,  and  folded  a  soft  shawl 
about  her  shoulders.  Then  she  opened  the  door 
and  stood  for  a  moment  listening,  her  eyes  di 
lating  and  her  breath  coming  quickly.  There 
was  no  sound  except  the  faint  snapping  of  the 
fire  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms.  The  hall  was 
quite  dark  in  the  early  twilight,  and  the  shad 
ows  hid  her  as  she  crept  downstairs;  her  fingers 
shook  when  she  turned  the  big  brass  knob  and 
opened  the  front  door.  In  another  moment  she 
had  closed  it  stealthily  behind  her,  and  stood 
alone  in  the  gray  chill  of  the  November  even 
ing. 

She  looked  back  once,  when  she  reached  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  not  hesitating  in  her  purpose,  nor 
with  any  relenting  tenderness,  but  with  the  habit 
of  a  love  which  has  been  repressed  and  misun 
derstood.  The  blinds  had  not  been  drawn,  and 
she  could  see  Joseph  sitting  with  his  gray  head 
bowed  upon  his  hand ;  his  spectacles  were  folded 
across  the  pages  of  a  book  which  was  upon  a 
little  round  table  at  his  side;  Sarah  Townsend's 
white  knitting-work  lay  just  as  she  had  put  it 
down  when  she  began  to  reprove  Rachel;  the 
room  looked  so  warm  and  peaceful,  her  uncle 
sat  so  quietly  watching  the  fire,  his  face  hidden 
by  his  hand,  that  a  wave  of  bitterness  swept 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  191 

over  the  child.  "What  does  he  care  if  I  am, 
unhappy?  "  she  thought;  "as  soon  as  the  lamps 
are  lighted  he  '11  read  again."  Oh,  if  they  only 
had  loved  her  —  she  already  thought  of  her  life 
with  them  as  in  the  past  —  she  could  have  been 
so  good !  but  they  would  never  trust  her  or  love 
her  again !  For  an  instant  she  forgot  that  her 
anger  was  for  Eoger's  sake. 

She  turned  and  ran  swiftly  through  the  gar 
den  ;  her  dress  caught  on  the  broken  branch  of 
a  rosebush,  and  she  stopped  to  loosen  it,  prick 
ing  her  slender  fingers  till  they  bled.  She  found 
herself  suddenly  crying ;  it  was  snowing  softly, 
and  she  was  cold,  and  everything  hated  her. 

The  rush  and  tumult  of  the  flying  train 
drowned  her  thoughts.  She  was  half  dazed 
when  she  reached  the  city,  but  in  the  short  ride 
to  Roger's  rooms  she  began  to  think  how  she 
should  tell  him  her  story.  Again  and  again  she 
reached  a  certain  point  in  it,  and  then  seemed 
to  wait  for  his  answer :  "  What  ought  I  to  do, 
Roger?  I  '11  do  whatever  thee  tells  me." 

She  was  so  sure  of  his  sympathy,  and  so  igno 
rant  of  human  nature,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  imagine  the  dismay  and  almost  repulsion 
with  which  Roger,  entering  his  small  library 
from  his  bedroom,  saw  her  standing  in  his  door 
way,  flushed  and  panting  and  almost  happy. 

After  his  first  two  terrible  words  of  astonish- 


192  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

ment  there  was  absolute  silence  for  a  moment. 
Rachel's  color  wavered  and  ebbed,  the  terror 
stole  back  into  her  eyes.  Without  a  word  of 
explanation  the  enormity  of  her  mistake  fell 
upon  her. 

"Has  anyone  seen  you?"  Roger  said;  and 
then  he  drew  her  inside  and  closed  the  door. 
"For  Heaven's  sake,  why  are  you  here?  Has 
anybody  seen  you?  "  His  fright  at  his  own  re 
sponsibility  made  him  angry.  Rachel's  beauti 
ful  dumb  eyes  entreated  him  to  understand  her. 
"Something  has  happened,  I  suppose.  Tell 
me.  Oh,  Rachel!  you  should  not  have  come 
here.  Did  you  go  to  my  office  first?" 

"They  have  found  out  about  my  going  to 
the  theatre,"  she  answered  at  last,  slowly.  She 
had  forgotten  that  it  had  been  her  own  con 
fession.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
trapped  into  telling  her  aunt.  "They  are  very 
angry,  and  they  will  never  trust  me  again. 
Aunt  Sarah  said  she  would  never  trust  me  again. 
So  I  am  going  to  earn  my  own  living ;  and  I  — 
I  thought  thee  could  advise  me  —  but  never 
mind." 

The  pitiful  quiver  in  her  voice  touched  Roger, 
but  it  was  chivalry,  not  love,  that  it  aroused. 

"Rachel,  dear,"  he  said  simply,  "I  will  take 
care  of  you  always.  You  must  marry  me,  Ra 
chel." 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  193 

But  it  was  too  late.  With  the  first  look  of 
horrified  surprise  on  Koger's  i'ace  the  woman 
had  been  born  in  her.  She  scarcely  seemed  to 
hear  him,  and  went  on  speaking  as  though  he 
had  not  interrupted  her.  She  was  conscious 
only  of  a  desire  to  hide  from  him  that  she  had 
depended  upon  him.  "I  mean  to  do  some  kind 
of  work.  I  don't  know  what,  yet.  But  I  can't 
live  at  Uncle  Joseph's  any  more.  So  I  thought 
—  if  thee  could  tell  me  some  place  where  I  could 
board  —  I  have  a  little  money  -  But  thee 
needn't  trouble,  Eoger." 

Koger  drew  a  long  breath.  After  all,  it 
would  never  do.  It  was  folly  to  have  asked  her 
to  marry  him;  and  Eachel  had  had  too  much 
sense  to  notice  his  words. 

44  Why,  of  course  I  '11  help  you,  Rachel," 
he  said,  in  a  troubled  way;  "only,  honestly,  I 
don't  see  how  I  can.  Why,  Rachel,  don't  you 
understand?  It  wouldn't  do." 

"Thee  needn't  trouble,"  she  said  again, 
vaguely. 

"But  it  isn't  that  it  is  any  trouble,"  he  ex 
plained.  "You  know  I  wouldn't  care  how 
much  trouble  it  was,  only,  what  would  be  the 
use?  You  couldn't  support  yourself.  Why, 
my  dear  girl,  what  can  you  do?  And,  don't 
you  see,  Friend  Townsend  would  simply  find 
you,  and  take  you  home  again.  He  has  the 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 


legal  right."  Roger  was  still  young  enough  in 
his  profession  to  feel  its  awe.  "Indeed,  Ra 
chel,"  he  continued,  for  she  did  not  answer,  "it 
was  foolish  to  come  to  me  —  to  come  in  town,  I 
mean  ;  and  it  was  a  mistake  to  think  you  could 
take  care  of  yourself.  I  know  the  world,  my 
child,  and  you  don't.  Do  go  home,  Rachel, 
right  away!  " 

The'  old  simple  friendliness  made  him  very 
much  in  earnest. 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 

"Won't  you  start  to  the  station  at  once?" 
Roger  said  eagerly.  "Your  carriage  is  at  the 
door  still,  and  you  can  be  at  home  again  in  an 
hour.  I  mustn't  go  downstairs  with  you;  it 
would  n't  do,  don't  you  know.  But  if  you  '11 
just  slip  out  quietly,  nobody  will  see  you,  and 
they  need  never  know  at  Friend  Townsend's 
that  you  came  here." 

"I  shall  know,"  Rachel  said,  hoarsely. 

"  What?  "  cried  Roger,  impatiently,  but  with 
out  waiting  for  her  answer;  "you  can  say  you 
came  in  town  on  an  errand  and  missed  your 
train,  or  —  or  anything  !  But  go  —  go  !  " 

In  the  sudden  fear  that  some  one  might  come 
in  and  find  her  there,  he  was  again  growing 
angry  with  her  folly. 

"Yes;  I  '11  go,"  Rachel  answered. 

"You  see,  I  don't  want  any  one  to  know  that 


AT  WHOSE  DOOB?  195 

you  came  here  to  see  me,  Rachel  dear,"  he  ex 
plained,  relenting  with  honest  sympathy  for  her 
mistake,  "because,  you  see,  it  isn't  —  well,  it 
is  11 't  usual  for  a  girl  to  go  to  a  man's  rooms, 
don't  you  know.  So  you  won'jb  mind  my  not 
going  downstairs  with  you?" 

"No,  I  won't  mind,"  she  said,  looking  ab 
sently  about  the  warm,  bright  little  room;  "I 
won't  mind;  oh,  no.  And  I'm  sorry,  Roger; 
and  it  is  n't  thy  fault.  Only  —  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  born,  thee  sees.  I  —  I  think  it  isn't 
anybody's  fault,  after  all." 

"What  isn't?  What  do  you  mean?"  he 
said,  with  sudden  anxiety,  for  she  seemed  so  in 
different  to  him  and  his  explanations  that  Roger 
felt  a  thrill  of  tenderness. 

But  Rachel  had  gone.  He  followed  her  into 
the  entry,  where  the  one  small  jet  of  gas  flared 
and  burned  bluely  for  a  moment  in  the  draught 
from  his  open  door,  but  she  did  not  look  back. 
He  leaned  over  the  balustrade  and  saw  her  gray 
figure  hurrying  down  the  coil  of  the  broad  stair 
case,  and  he  stood  there,  straining  his  eyes  into 
the  darkness  and  full  of  troubled  pity,  until, 
in  the  lower  hall,  the  front  door  opened  and 
then  closed  with  a  dull,  distant  jar. 


196  AT  WHOSE  DOOR* 

VI. 

And  Eacliel?  The  idea  of  going  home  again 
never  presented  itself  to  her,  yet,  with  a  dim 
consciousness  of  a  promise,  she  went  blindly 
towards  the  station.  She  forgot  the  carriage, 
although  it  had  begun  to  snow  steadily,  and  in 
her  hurried  uncertain  walk  she  stumbled  once 
or  twice.  The  second  time  a  group  of  men, 
who  had  sought  shelter  in  a  doorway,  laughed 
loudly,  and  one  of  them  shouted  a  name  into 
ears  too  innocent  to  know  that  they  were  in 
sulted.  She  turned  and  looked  at  them  with 
the  wondering  thought  that  any  one  was  happy 
enough  to  laugh,  and  they  were  silenced. 

Again  the  short,  swift  ride ;  again  the  glare 
of  the  lamp  outside  the  little  station,  the  pant 
ing  engine,  the  clouds  of  steam,  and,  through 
all,  the  beating  snow  and  the  gusts  of  wind. 
The  station  master  did  not  recognize  her,  and 
when  he  looked  again  for  the  one  passenger 
who  had  gotten  out  of  the  train,  she  had  van 
ished. 

She  left  the  road,  which  ran  between  leafless 
hedges,  and,  climbing  down  a  gravelly  bank, 
hurried  across  a  field  towards  the  river.  "If 
I  can  only  just  be  quiet  and  think,"  she  said 
again  and  again;  "if  I  can  only  be  quiet." 
She  walked  aimlessly  about  the  wide,  white 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  197 

meadow,  trying  to  silence  the  tumult  in  her 
brain  which  seemed  actual  noise.  She  even  put 
her  hands  up  to  her  ears  once,  and  stood  still, 
repeating,  "I  must  think."  After  a  while  she 
tripped  upon  the  twisted  root  of  a  locust-tree, 
and,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  did  not  rise,  but 
sat  leaning  against  its  rough  trunk.  "I'll 
think  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  for  the  darkness  and  the  storm 
began  to  terrify  her.  One  word,  repeating  and 
repeating  itself,  had  made  this  clamor  in  her 
mind. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  as  though  answer 
ing  it,  "yes,  I  will  die;  I  must;  but  I  don't 
know  how.  Oh,  if  God  would  only  kill  me; 
He  might  be  as  kind  as  that !  1  have  always 
been  so  unhappy,  and  it  would  be  such  a  little 
thing  to  let  me  die!  But  I  have  prayed  and 
prayed,  and  yet  I  go  on  living.  Why  can't  He 
let  me  die  instead  of  some  sick  person — who 
has  friends?" 

As  this  thought  worked  itself  out  in  her 
mind,  she  heard,  above  her  own  sobs,  and  above 
the  soft,  swift  rush  of  the  river,  the  far-off 
rumble  of  a  train  of  cars. 

Then,  suddenly,  it  all  came  to  her,  how  easy 
escape  was,  how  simple  !  A  great  calm  settled 
down  upon  her.  She  lifted  her  face  with  a  be 
wildered  smile.  The  snow  had  caught  in  the 


198  AT  WHOSE  DOOR? 

wet  tangle  of  her  dark  hair,  and  blew  against 
her  small,  pitiful  lips  with  faint,  cold  touches. 
Here  was  the  way  out  of  all  the  pain ;  she  need 
not  pray  for  it  to  come  to  her ;  she  could  take  it. 

She  rose,  steadying  herself  upon  her  tired 
feet,  and  began  to  walk  back  across  the  field 
towards  the  railroad.  She  found  herself  won 
dering  why  anybody  was  alive  when  it  was  so 
easy  not  to  be.  She  laughed,  under  her  breath, 
to  think  how  she  had  prayed  for  escape  when  all 
the  while  the  river  had  been  slipping  by,  and 
this  other  way  invited  her.  And  then  her  mind 
fastened  upon  the  idea  that  she  was  dying  for 
some  one  else,  some  unknown,  dearly  loved  sick 
person.  A  curious  pagan  instinct  of  giving  a 
life  in  exchange  for  a  life,  sprang  up  in  this  mo 
ment  of  primal  simplicity  into  which  her  soul 
slipped  at  the  thought  of  death.  She  would  die, 
and  some  one  else  should  live.  The  passion  of 
sacrifice  entered  into  the  thought  of  death  and 
hid  the  pitiful  selfishness  of  her  purpose,  a  pur 
pose  which  was  only  childish  impatience  with 
present  pain. 

When  she  reached  the  steep  embankment 
again,  she  took  off  her  bonnet,  and,  with  the 
hardly  acquired  habit  of  care  for  her  clothing, 
folded  her  shawl  about  it,  placing  them  beneath 
a  tree.  Then  she  climbed  the  gravelly  slope  and 
stood  upon  one  of  the  tracks;  the  snow  beat  in 


AT  WHOSE  DOOR?  199 

her  face,  and  the  wind  twisted  her  wet  skirt 
about  her  ankles.  Again,  far  back  among  the 
hills,  came  the  rumble  of  the  approaching  train ; 
she  felt  the  jar  under  her  feet,  and  then,  through 
the  white  blur  of  the  storm,  came  the  muffled 
glare  of  the  headlight. 

In  an  instant  the  desire  for  death  was  swept 
away.  Her  instinct  to  escape  pain  had  been 
only  love  of  life  in  disguise.  She  leaped  back 
upon  the  other  track.  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  it, 
I  didn't  mean  it!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  The 
riotous  wind  swept  her  frightened  voice  like  a 
feather  into  the  darkness,  and  as  the  cars  rushed 
past  her  down  the  track  she  stood  white  and 
trembling,  saying  again  and  again:  "I  don't 
want  to  die,  I  don't  want  to  die;  I  didn't  mean 
it!" 

She  had  forgotten  —  or  perhaps  she  did  not 
know  —  that  the  other  express  was  due.  The 
two  trains  thundered  by  each  other,  and  left  only 
darkness  and  the  beating  snow. 

If  only  the  great  silence  could  have  explained 
her  to  them ! 

"She  took  her  own  life,"  Sarah  said  briefly; 
"the  child  of  our  old  age  could  not  love  us 
enough  to  live  for  us.  And  it  was  my  fault." 

"I  drove  her  to  it  —  it  was  my  fault,"  Roger 
Livingstone  said,  under  his  breath,  divided  be- 


AT  WHOSE  DOO2? 

tween  grief,  and  fright,  and  pasrionate  grati 
tude  that  no  one  but  himself  knew  of  the  inter 
view  in  his  rooms  that  last  night.  But  this 
terrible  conviction  faded  and  he  came  after  a 
while  to  think,  very  honestly,  that  he  had  loved 
her,  and  she  had  refused  him.  "She  would 
not  listen  to  me  when  I  asked  her  to  marry 
me !  Oh,  if  she  had  cared  for  me  I  could  have 
saved  her,  and  now  she  has  broken  my  heart ! ' 

"It  was  my  fault,  it  was  my  fault!"  Joseph 
Townsend  said;  "  I  ought  to  have  understood 
her.  We  tried  to  make  her  good  in  our  way, 
when  she  had  a  right  to  her  own  nature.  But  I 
ought  to  have  understood!  " 


A  FOUKTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

I. 

THE  post-office  at  Pennyville  was  at  the  foot 
of  the  long  hill  up  which  Main  Street  climbed 
a  little  way,  and  then  stopped  as  though  to  take 
breath  and  look  back  upon  itself.  After  that, 
the  street  melted  into  a  country  road  which  wan 
dered  between  the  fields,  and  down  the  hill 
to  the  river  and  the  ferry,  and  a  half  dozen 
houses  which  were  only  occupied  during  that 
part  of  the  year  in  which  summer  visitors  in 
vaded  the  Pennyville  quiet.  The  houses  along 
Main  Street  stood  close  together  in  a  friendly 
way,  and  ignored  as  much  as  possible  those  scat 
tered  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  Pennyville 
acknowledged  that  the  summer  residents  had  a 

O 

certain  value,  but  it  looked  down  upon  them  as 
one  does  look  down  upon  merely  useful  things. 
It  found  some  slow  amusement  in  their  "airs," 
and  it  was  rather  interested,  too,  to  talk  over 
their  various  extravagances. 

But  really  Pennyville  cared  little  for  the 
summer  residents,  and  the  summer  residents 


202      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

cared  less  for  Pennyville.  The  village  was 
small,  —  forty  houses,  perhaps,  beside  the  tav 
ern,  which  was  frequented  by  occasional  drum 
mers  with  sewing-  machines  or  gum  boots,  and 
traveling  photographers  who  exhibited  enlarged 
crayon  heads ;  and  the  dentist,  who  came  twice 
a  year.  The  houses  were  built  on  very  much 
the  same  plan :  a  story  and  a  half  high,  with 
an  entry  which  was  narrow,  and  generally  so 
dark  that  one  could  not  see  the  pattern  of  the 
oil-cloth,  which  was  an  advantage  if  the  oil-cloth 
was  shabby ;  and  each  house  had  a  shed  at  right 
angles  to  the  kitchen.  All  the  best  rooms  had  the 
same  cold,  shut-up  smell,  —  perhaps  because  the 
narrow  windows  were  not  often  opened,  owing 
to  a  tendency  to  stick,  which  sometimes  kept 
them  shut  from  one  spring-cleaning  to  another. 

It  was  the  custom  in  Pennyville  to  keep  the 
parlor  closed,  except  perhaps  for  the  sewing 
society  or  for  a  funeral.  But,  all  the  same,  it 
was  furnished  with  the  best  the  household  pos 
sessed.  It  generally  boasted  a  centre  table,  on 
which,  standing  on  a  wool  mat,  there  was  apt  to 
be  a  large  lamp  which  waited  an  occasion  im 
portant  enough  to  be  lighted ;  —  an  occasion 
was  so  long  in  coming  that  the  oil  was  thick  and 
yellow  in  the  red  or  green  glass  bowl. 

There  was,  however,  one  house  on  Main  Street 
which  had  a  peculiarity  of  its  own,  and  gained 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      203 

thereby  a  certain  importance.  This  was  Mrs. 
Gedge's,  and  the  peculiarity  was  a  small  square 
building  of  one  room  attached  to  the  house  by 
means  of  the  woodshed.  As  for  the  house,  it 
was  like  everybody  else's,  but  that  single  square 
room,  over  the  outer  door  of  which  was  a  weather- 
beaten  sign,  "U.  S.  Post-Office,"  distinguished 
it  and  its  occupants  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  The  office  was  quite  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  before  the  open  green  of  the  common.  The 
street  bent  a  little  to  come  close  up  to  its  door, 
so  that  the  stage-driver  could  hand  in  his  mail- 
bag  without  leaving  his  seat ;  that  done,  the  road 
bent  back,  and  curved  off  along  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  crossed  a  shaking  wooden  bridge,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  shoulder  of  a  hill. 

Within,  this  small  building  at  once  con 
fessed  its  purpose ;  it  was  divided  by  a  partition, 
in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  delivery  window 
surrounded  by  rows  of  pigeon  holes.  There  was 
a  counter  in  the  room,  too,  and  some  shelves, 
which  held  immemorial  green  pasteboard  boxes, 
whose  corners  were  strengthened  by  having  strips 
of  linen  pasted  neatly  along  each  angle.  There 
was  writing  paper  in  these  boxes,  pale  pink  and 
yellow,  with  fine  blue  rulings,  or  perhaps  a  pic 
ture  in  the  corner  of  each  sheet.  There  was  a 
very  small  showcase  on  the  counter,  in  which 
were  tarnished  bits  of  jewelry  pasted  upon 


204      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

yellowing  cards,  and  some  scent  bottles,  and 
bottles  of  red  and  blue  ink,  and,  of  course,  the 
sober  black  as  well ;  but  that  was  less  popular. 
The  contents  of  the  showcase  had  been  so  long 
familiar  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  ink  and 
pencils,  no  one  ever  thought  of  purchasing  them. 
Standing  on  the  scratched  and  dim  top  of  the 
case  were  three  jars  which  held  red  kisses  and 
white,  little  hard  gumdrops,  and  fat  black  sticks 
of  licorice.  There  were  two  or  three  posters 
on  the  walls  of  county  fairs,  or  of  the  traveling 
bell-ringers;  one  as  recent  as  within  two  years. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  was  a  small  air 
tight  stove  with  a  chair  beside  it.  "I  would 
have  more  chairs  if  it  was  mine,  this  post-office," 
said  Mrs.  Gedge,  "but  it  is  a  place  for  busi 
ness,  not  sociality;  so  the  government  don't 
provide  chairs,  and  it  ain't  for  me  to  seem  to 
criticise  by  bringing  in  any  of  my  own." 

Mrs.  Gedge  and  Amanda  had  lived  in  Penny - 
ville  all  their  lives,  and  in  the  social  life  of 
Main  Street  had  held  their  unassailable  posi 
tion;  but  since  these  pigeon  holes  had  been 
put  into  the  small,  detached  room  which  once 
held  Adam  Gedge 's  cobbler's  bench  (twenty 
years  ago  now),  —  since  that  time,  Mrs.  Gedge 
and  Amanda  had  grown  vastly  more  important. 
They  were  the  custodians  of  the  United  States 
mail ;  they  were  intrusted  with  public  moneys ; 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      205 

they  had  mysterious  communications  with  Wash 
ington  ;  it  was  reported,  although  carefully  not 
asserted  by  either  mother  or  daughter,  that  they 
had  had  a  letter  from  the  President !  The  con 
sciousness  of  their  obligations  and  responsibil 
ities  clothed  them  as  with  a  uniform.  Amanda 
Gedge  carried  her  tall,  angular  form  with  a  pre 
cision  suited  to  the  parade-ground,  and  walked 
with  a  military  tread.  Mrs.  Gedge  had  been 
known  to  put  an  end  to  a  political  discussion 
which  had  begun  around  the  stove  while  she 
was  sorting  the  mail,  on  the  ground  that  she 
was  "connected  with  the  administration,  and  it 
was  not  right,  to  her  mind,  for  her  to  be  pres 
ent  when  it  was  criticised.  So,  if  they  pleased, 
they  could  step  outside  and  talk  about  it." 
Lord  Salisbury  could  have  no  better  excuse  for 
refusing  to  discuss  the  Queen's  speech. 

That  was  eight  years  ago,  when  Mrs.  Gedge 
was  able  to  sort  the  letters  herself,  and  hand 
them  out  of  the  little  window  in  the  middle  of 
the  pigeon  holes,  and  so  could  not  help  overhear 
ing  comments  upon  the  weather,  or  the  church, 
or,  once  in  four  years,  the  politics  of  the  nation. 
But  now  that  pleasant  and  important  task  was 
over;  instead,  she  sat  all  day  long  behind  the 
partition,  with  her  crutches  beside  her,  and 
her  knitting  in  her  crippled  old  hands,  while 
Amanda  took  her  place  at  the  delivery  window. 


206      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Amanda  was  a  trifle  deaf,  and,  when  in  her  offi 
cial  position,  very  much  absorbed  by  her  duties, 
so  that  she  did  not  often  notice  the  discussions 
carried  on  in  the  open  space  about  the  stove, 
which  space,  Mrs.  Gedge  admitted,  belonged 
to  the  Public.  Then,  too,  although  Amanda 
appreciated  her  position,  her  deepest  thought 
was  always  for  her  mother,  and  she  was  not  so 
apt  to  reflect  upon  what  was  due  to  her  official 
personality  as  to  think  anxiously  of  Mrs.  Gedge's 
health,  or  to  plan  small  pleasures  for  the  little 
frail  old  woman.  Still,  she  knew  her  import 
ance,  as  a  representative  of  the  United  States 
Government. 

It  was  all  pathetically  genuine.  Amanda's 
severe  bosom  had  thrilled  with  the  purest  patri 
otism  when,  twenty-four  years  before,  her  father 
had  enlisted.  With  him  had  gone  Willie  Boyce. 
Willie  had  come  home  a  year  later,  too  sick  to 
give  much  thought  to  his  old  sweetheart,  and 
only  able,  his  mind  fastened  on  his  own  suffer 
ing,  to  grope  wearily  through  a  few  months  of 
wretched  living. 

Adam  Gedge  had  never  come  home  again. 
Amanda  did  not  know  her  father's  grave,  but 
Willie's  was  over  on  the  hill.  It  seemed  to 
belong  to  Amanda,  for  the  young  man's  family 
had  moved  away  from  Pennyville,  and  left  him 
to  her.  More  than  that,  the  poem  on  Willie's 


A   FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      207 

gray  slate  headstone  had  been  the  one  great 
achievement  of  Mrs.  Gedge's  life,  — she  had 
composed  it,  but  it  only;  genius  had  never 
burned  again.  Amanda  sometimes  felt  that 
her  father's  death  had  been  the  price  of  the  post= 
office  appointment  which  had  come  to  Mrs. 
Gedge  in  '64,  and  so  she  was  a  little  more  gentle 
with  the  Public  than  was  her  mother.  Official 
life,  Mrs.  Gedge  had  been  heard  to  complain, 
did  sometimes  make  one  seem  severe.  And  yet 
so  little  had  greatness  really  hardened  her  heart, 
so  patient  was  she  with  the  well-meaning  Public, 
that  she  had  several  times  illustrated  the  pa 
ternal  side  of  government  by  small  indulgences, 
such  as  delaying  the  mail-bag  for  a  letter  which 
she  knew  was  being  written  by  a  slow  but  anx 
ious  correspondent.  It  was  quite  an  ordinary 
thing,  too,  for  her  to  give  a  stamp  to  a  customer 
who  had  chanced  to  leave  his  purse  at  home, 
and  when  he  remembered  his  penny  debt,  he 
was  always  silenced  by  magnanimous  refusals 
to  recognize  such  paltry  obligation ;  the  deficien 
cies  caused  by  such  governmental  generosity 
gave  Amanda  many  arithmetical  difficulties, 
and  lessened  their  already  slender  income.  But 
neither  Mrs.  Gedge  nor  Amanda  begrudged 
that ;  they  liked  to  be  kind  to  the  Public,  they 
said  to  each  other.  Their  inconvenience  was 
noblesse  oblige,  and  to  hold  back  the  wheels 


208      A  FOURTH  CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

of  government  was  but  the  consideration  of  the 
powerful  for  the  weak.  Yet  such  is  the  in 
gratitude  of  that  capricious  body  which  they 
so  indulged  that  there  had  been  more  than  one 
irritated  protest  heard  in  the  open  space  before 
the  delivery  window.  To  be  sure,  such  protests 
had  always  come  from  the  summer  residents, 
"and,"  said  Mrs.  Gedge,  comforting  her  daugh 
ter,  whose  elderly  face  was  flushed,  and  whose 
eyes  glittered  with  tears,  "you  really  can't  ex 
pect  anything  else  of  such  people,  Amanda!  " 

"Well,  I  must  say  it  was  unreasonable," 
Amanda  agreed.  "Mr.  Hamilton  knows  that 
we  have  to  consider  the  Public,  but  he  says  he  's 
the  Public,  —  and  only  here  six  weeks  in  the 
summer!  I  told  him,  said  I:  'Mr.  Hamilton, 
Mrs.  Dace  wanted  to  send  off  some  collars  she  'd 
been  making  for  her  daughter,  and  I  knew  she 
only  had  a  stitch  to  put  in  them.  If  I  'd  sent 
the  mail-bag  down  by  the  morning  stage  those 
collars  would  n't  have  been  in  it,  and  Mary  Dace 
wouldn't  have  got  them  in  time  for  Sunday. 
So  I  kept  back  the  bag,  and  coaxed  Oily  to  take 
it  down  on  the  evening  stage.'  Well,  Mr. 
Hamilton  was  just  as  unreasonable !  " 

"You  shouldn't  argue  with  those  people, 
'Mandy,"  objected  Mrs.  Gedge.  "The  Govern 
ment  is  the  only  thing  you  've  got  to  consider. 
If  Mr.  Hamilton  don't  like  the  way  the  Govern- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      209 

ment  serves  him  —  well,  let  him  carry  his  letters 
himself!" 

"And  it  was  nothing  but  a  paper  that  was 
delayed,  anyhow,"  Amanda  explained  for  the 
third  time. 

Mrs.  Gedge  pulled  her  knitted  shawl  comfort 
ably  around  her  shoulders.  "Of  course  we  do 
sell  more  stamps  when  they  are  here  —  the  sum 
mer  people  —  but  they  are  so  fussy  and  over 
bearing,  even  to  us,  that  I  don't  think  they  are 
worth  the  money  they  bring  in.  I  declare,  I 
believe  they  think  Penny ville  belongs  to  them." 

But  a  sense  of  importance  will  sustain  one 
under  small  irritations,  and  so  these  annoyances 
did  not  really  disturb  the  peaceful  life  in  the 
little  old  gray  house.  All  that  summer,  which 
was  tremulous  with  the  excitement  of  the  great 
campaign  that  was  to  come,  Mrs  Gedge  sat 
tranquilly  behind  the  pigeon  holes  with  her 
knitting;  or,  when  it  was  too  damp  to  be 
wheeled  through  the  shed  to  the  post-office,  had 
her  chair  pushed  beside  the  kitchen  window 
so  that  she  could  see  the  stage  draw  up  to  the 
door  for  the  mail -bag,  and  watch  the  Public 
come  and  go.  The  kitchen  was  such  a  pleasant 
room  that,  save  for  the  anxiety  of  feeling  that 
Amanda  was  bearing  alone  the  burden  of  official 
responsibility,  Mrs.  Gedge  would  have  enjoyed 
her  days  there.  When  it  began  to  grow  cool 


210      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

in  September,  Amanda  potted  her  geraniums 
and  put  them  on  the  shelves  in  one  of  the  south 
windows,  where  they  flourished  so  finely  that 
one  did  not  have  to  touch  the  vigorous  leaves 
to  notice  their  faint  musky  scent.  Amanda 
kept  the  stove  bright  with  a  cheerful  glitter  of 
polish,  and  the  worn  "two-ply"  in  the  centre  of 
the  well- scrubbed  boards  gave  a  hint  of  com 
fortable  color  underfoot.  Over  a  little  table 
draped  with  a  crazy  patchwork  cover  were  some 
bookshelves,  which  held  the  Bible  and  "Pil 
grim's  Progress,"  and  one  or  two  such  faithful 
friends;  but  scarcity  of  books  left  more  room 
for  the  few  ornaments  which  Mrs.  Gedge  had 
long  loved,  and  which  Amanda  revered  because 
she  had  known  them  in  her  childhood.  A 
whale's  tooth  and  a  bunch  of  wax  grapes  are 
not  awe-inspiring  perhaps,  but  no  age  or  famil 
iarity  can  rob  them  of  beauty  if  they  have  ever 
worn  it  to  childish  eyes.  There  was  a  small 
flag  in  a  china  vase  on  the  top  shelf,  and 
there  was  a  chromo  of  General  Grant  over  the 
pantry  door.  The  most  striking  expression  of 
the  love  of  country,  however,  was  the  shed 
door,  which  opened  on  the  square  grass-plot  be 
tween  the  house  and  the  post-office.  Adam,  the 
night  before  he  had  marched  away,  had,  in  the 
fervor  of  his  patriotism,  run  over  to  the  paint 
shop,  and  begged  from  Silas  Goodrich  three 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      211 

pots  of  paint,  and  then,  while  Amanda  and 
Willie  Boyce  stood  and  watched  him,  he  painted 
the  door  in  alternate  stripes  of  red,  white,  and 
blue.  At  first  Mrs.  Gedge  was  proud  of  it,  and 
was  careful,  as  the  paint  began  to  flake  a  little, 
to  have  it  renewed;  but  a  half-dozen  times  in 
the  last  ten  years  she  said  she  would  have  that 
door  painted  a  nice  drab.  Amanda's  non-acqui 
escence,  however,  —  it  was  never  more  positive 
than  that,  —  still  kept  the  colors  of  the  Union 
bright. 

"You  know  you  didn't  see  him  paint  it,  mo 
ther.  You  were  upstairs.  But  I  saw  him,"  she 
said,  her  mild  brown  eyes  vague  with  memory. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Mrs.  Gedge  assented,  growing 
reminiscent.  "I  was  upstairs  sitting  on  the 
cowhide  trunk,  crying.  You  know  I  wanted 
him  to  take  his  things  in  your  grandfather 
Beed's  cowhide  trunk,  and  he  said  he  could  n't 
take  a  trunk.  My,  how  I  cried  when  he  said 
he  couldn't  take  a  trunk!  It  seemed  so  poor, 
and  I  did  n't  give  up  asking  him  to  do  it  until 
the  last  minute.  And  oh,  how  I  felt,  seeing 
him  go  without  a  trunk !  It  was  a  presentiment, 
child.  You  were  too  young  —  only  eighteen 
—  to  feel  it  as  I  did.  You  did  n't  cry." 

Amanda's  eyes  blurred  at  the  thought  of  her 
mother's  grief.  "No,  I  didn't  cry  in  those 
days,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  seem  to  have  time 


212      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

to  cry.  I  just  followed  him  round  and  round, 
and  I  saw  him  paint  the  door.  But  you  were 
always  a  pretty  crier,  mother." 

"Willie  Boyce  stood  there  beside  you,  too," 
Mrs.  Gedge  went  on.  "I  can  see  him  to  this 
day.  He  wasn't  pretty,  Willie  wasn't,  but 
that  never  seemed  to  make  any  difference  to 
you.  Poor  Willie!  He  was  buried  with  his 
folks;  that  must  have  been  a  comfort  to  him. 
Many  's  the  time  I  've  wondered  whether  he 
knows  that  I  wrote  the  poem  on  his  tombstone  ? 
It  would  please  poor  Willie." 

But  that  mention  of  Willie  Boyce  turned 
Amanda  silent.  She  said  she  must  run  over 
to  the  office,  and  left  her  mother  wondering  why 
the  child  never  would  talk  about  her  beau ;  and 
so  again  the  question  of  the  painting  of  the  shed 
door  fell  into  abeyance.  "Though,  being  a  flag, 
as  it  were,"  Mrs.  Gedge  insisted  to  herself,  as 
she  sat  before  the  winking  embers  of  the  stove, 
"it  does  seem  to  bring  our  position  in  the  Gov 
ernment  right  into  our  private  life." 


II. 

By  October  of  that  year  even  Pennyville  had 
stirred  in  its  satisfied  indifference,  and  was  hear 
ing  the  voice  of  the  nation  instructing  and  sug 
gesting  and  contradicting  itself.  The  voting 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      213 

population  listened,  with  a  sort  of  slow  amuse 
ment,  to  the  men  who  came  to  tell  them  that 
their  party  had  outlived  its  usefulness,  and  to 
entreat  them  to  "save  the  country."  In  all  these 
years  Pennyville  had  never  been  so  near  hold 
ing  political  opinions.  It  was  really  very  in 
teresting.  Even  Mrs.  Gedge  said  that  if  they 
were  true,  —  the  things  that  were  said  about  the 
party  in  power,  —  she  hoped  Government  would 
turn  them  out;  but  she  regretted  this  indiscre 
tion  afterwards. 

"It  isn't  for  us  to  express  an  opinion,  child," 
she  told  Amanda;  "though,  of  course,  they  are 
all  anxious  to  know  what  we  think." 

Amanda  made  some  vague  reply.  She  was 
less  interested  than  usual  in  her  own  greatness. 
These  October  days  brought  the  anniversary  of 
Willie  Boyce's  death,  and  her  mind  kept  wan 
dering  to  that  mound  over  on  the  hillside.  She 
remembered,  with  a  wonderfully  pitiful  love, 
his  weary  indifference  to  her  in  the  weeks  that 
he  lay  dying.  "Willie  was  sick,"  she  said  to 
herself  many  times,  and  never  thought  of  being 
hurt;  it  only  made  her  love  him  more.  But 
no  doubt  her  abstraction  made  her  less  careful 
about  the  letters ;  she  dropped  one  on  the  floor 
at  the  midday  distribution,  and  did  not  notice  it 
until  evening.  Then  she  slipped  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  ran  across  to  Mr.  Goodrich's  with  it. 


214      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

"It's  lucky  it  wasn't  for  that  Hamilton 
man,"  Mrs.  Gedge  asserted,  rather  contemptu 
ously;  "he'd  have  made  a  fuss  about  it,  you 
can  better  believe." 

As  for  Silas  Goodrich,  anything  so  important 
as  the  arrival  of  a  letter  made  the  delay  of  an 
hour  or  a  day  a  very  small  matter;  it  had  come, 
and  that  was  all  he  cared  about.  He  never 
dreamed  of  finding  fault. 

The  next  day  was  the  day  that  Willie  Boyce 
had  died,  and  in  the  afternoon  Amanda  went 
up  to  the  graveyard  with  a  wreath  of  immor 
telles,  which  she  had  dyed  pink  and  blue  and 
vivid  green.  She  leaned  it  against  the  slate 
headstone,  and  then  knelt  down,  and  with  her 
handkerchief  carefully  wiped  a  piece  of  glass 
set  into  the  slate  to  cover  a  faded  tintype  of  a 
consumptive  young  man  in  a  soldier's  uniform. 
Amanda  looked  at  the  picture  long  and  wist 
fully.  Some  day,  when  she  had  saved  the 
money,  she  was  to  pay  ten  dollars  and  have 
a  crayon  copy  made  of  this  tintype.  She  had 
decided  to  do  this  a  dozen  years  ago,  when  a 
traveling  "picture  man,"  passing  through  the 
village,  had  suggested  it  to  her.  Ten  dollars  is 
not  a  large  sum  to  save  in  twelve  years,  and  it 
had  several  times  been  reached,  but  just  as  the 
last  dollar  or  dime  was  added  to  the  little  fund, 
there  was  always  some  call  for  it.  Her  mother 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      215 

needed  a  wheeled  chair,  or  a  new  cooking-stove 
must  be  bought,  or  the  re-shingling  of  the  roof 
was  absolutely  necessary;  and  so  the  cold  closed 
parlor  of  Mrs.  Gedge's  house  was  still  without 
a  crayon. 

Amanda,  kneeling,  picked  away  some  dead 
leaves  of  the  myrtle  on  the  mound,  and  then 
scraped  a  flake  of  lichen  from  the  inscription. 
She  knew  the  lines  by 'heart,  but  she  always 
read  them  over  with  unfailing  pride  for  her 
mother  as  well  as  tenderness  for  Willie. 

"William  P.  Boyce,"  it  ran,  "died  for  his 
country,"  and  then  the  date,  followed  by  the 
verse  which  Mrs.  Gedge  had  composed :  — 

"  Oh,  traveler,  whoever  you  may  be, 
Take  warning  and  advice  by  he 
Who  lies  beneath  this  tomb. 
He  went  to  war  and  died, 
And  now  in  paradise  is  glorified. 
Mourned  by  his  friends." 

"Mourned  by  his  friends,"  Amanda  repeated; 
and  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  his  name. 

After  that  she  went  home.  She  was  very 
silent  that  evening,  and  her  mother  was  fiill  of 
small  devices  to  cheer  her.  She  told  her  how 
Mr.  Hamilton's  John  had  come  down  to  see 
whether  a  letter  he  expected  in  the  noon  mail 
might  not  have  been  overlooked. 

"He    said   that   Mr.    Hamilton   expected   it 


216      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

yesterday.  I  told  him  no,  of  course  it  hadn't 
been  overlooked.  Snch  a  time  about  a  letter ! 
Well,  he  's  gone,  anyway,  Mr.  Hamilton  has. 
I  wonder  he  did  n't  stay  over  until  to-morrow 
to  get  his  letter." 

Mrs.  Gedge  did  not  mind  the  severity  of  her 
sarcasm  if  only  'Mandy  would  cheer  up  a  little. 
("My  goodness,  and  her  beau  dead  nearly 
twenty- five  years!  ") 

"Yes,"  she  proceeded,  "he  got  a  telegraph, 
—  a  man  on  a  horse  brought  it,  —  and  then  I 
saw  him  driving  off  like  a  crazy  man.  Those 
summer  people  have  no  sort  of  consideration  for 
their  beasts;  he  made  those  horses  fly." 

Amanda  looked  uneasy.  "I  don't  think  I 
could  have  missed  his  letter,"  she  said;  "but  I 
guess  I  '11  just  run  over  and  give  a  look  into  the 
bag.  Don't  you  remember  that  time  Mrs. 
Ainu's  letter  stuck  in  the  bag?" 

She  took  a  lamp,  shielding  its  clear  flame 
with  a  large  bony  hand  as  she  walked  through 
the  draughty  shed  to  the  post-office.  The  mail- 
bag,  lean  and  empty,  hung  between  two  chairs, 
awaiting  the  morning  letters.  Amanda  put  her 
hand  in  it  and  felt  all  around.  "Of  course 
there  's  no  letter,"  she  said  to  herself,  indig 
nantly.  "It's  just  as  mother  says,  they  do 
fuss  so !  "  She  stopped  to  see  that  the  fire  was 
quite  out  in  the  stove,  and  then,  with  the  severe 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      217 

smile  with  which  she  always  tried  to  check 
levity  unsuited  to  the  place,  she  opened  one  of 
the  candy  jars  and  abstracted  two  gumdrops. 
"There!  I  guess  mother  and  I  can  have  some; 
they  're  getting  stale."  And  as  they  had  been 
purchased  in  June,  Mrs.  Gedge  accepted  the 
extravagance  and  indulgence  with  but  little 
protest. 

Afterwards,  looking  back  upon  it,  that  even 
ing  seemed  to  Amanda  Gedge  wonderfully 
pleasant.  She  set  the  table  and  made  the  toast 
and  tea,  and  her  mother  told  her  she  might  get 
out  a  tumbler  of  gooseberry  jam  as  a  treat; 
after  the  dishes  were  washed,  they  sat  down  by 
the  stove,  and  while  Amanda  mended  her  stock 
ings  Mrs.  Gedge  talked.  These  two  quiet 
women  found  life  very  interesting.  First,  of 
course,  was  the  consciousness  of  their  own  im 
portance,  which  naturally  suggested  much  con 
versation.  Then,  too,  they  had  all  their  past 
to  talk  about,  which,  to  be  sure,  had  had  its 
sorrows :  little  Charles,  who  died  when  Amanda 
was  ten  years  old;  Willie  Boyce, —  though  it 
was  only  Mrs.  Gedge  who  talked  of  him ;  and 
the  soldier-cobbler,  whose  grave  had  never  been 
tended  by  wife  or  daughter,  but  which,  some 
where  in  the  South,  was  marked  "unknown." 
They  could  speak,  too,  of  their  happiness  in  not 
being  obliged  to  draw  a  pension.  "  Government 


218      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

gave  us  our  position,  so  we  are  independent," 
said  Amanda.  And  Mrs.  Gedge  acquiesced, 
and  said  that  a  pension  would  have  made  her 
feel  like  a  beggar,  anyway  ;  but  not  needing  it, 
being  in  the  Government,  it  would  make  her 
feel  like  a  thief  to  have  it !  Then  they  could 
talk  of  the  geraniums ;  their  looks  as  compared 
to  last  year,  or  the  year  before,  or  many  years 
before ;  and  the  frost ;  and  how  long  the  tub  of 
butter  was  going  to  last.  Yes,  life  was  very  in 
teresting. 

The  next  morning  it  rained,  and  was  too 
damp  for  Mrs.  Gedge  to  go  through  the  shed ; 
so  she  settled  herself  at  the  kitchen  window  for 
a  long  day's  knitting.  The  stage  came  swinging 
and  creaking  down  the  hill,  and  the  four  horses, 
sleek  and  steaming  with  the  rain,  stood,  with 
much  pawing  and  jangling  of  traces,  in  front  of 
the  post-office,  while  the  young  red-faced  driver, 
knocking  with  the  handle  of  his  whip  on  the  off 
wheel,  called  out:  "Good-morning,  'Handy. 
Mail  ready?" 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Gedge  saw  Amanda 
hurry  out  with  the  still  lean  bag  in  her  arms, 
and  hand  it  up  to  Oily  Clough  to  put  under  his 
feet  on  the  toe -board.  Oily  flourished  his  whip, 
nodded,  went  jolting  over  the  bridge,  and  dis 
appeared  behind  the  hill.  Mrs.  Gedge  could 
not  imagine  why  Amanda  should  stand  there 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      219 

bareheaded,  her  gaunt  shoulders  covered  only 
with  a  little  square  blue -check  shawl,  apparently 
forgetful  of  the  rain.  She  scratched  upon  the 
window  pane  with  her  knitting-needles  to  at 
tract  her  daughter's  attention,  but  Amanda  did 
not  seem  to  hear  her,  although  she  turned  slowly 
and  went  back  into  the  office.  It  was  certainly 
ten  minutes  later  before  she  came  through  the 

o 

shed  into  the  kitchen. 

"Why,  what  kept  you,  child?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Gedge,  whose  curiosity  never  flagged  con 
cerning  small  happenings. 

"Mother,"  said  Amanda,  "look  at  that!" 
She  held  up  a  letter  as  she  spoke. 

Mrs.  Gedge  stretched  out  her  hand  for  it 
eagerly,  and  then  stopped  to  put  on  her  glasses, 
so  that,  holding  it  at  arm's-length,  she  might 
read  the  address.  "'Arthur  Hamilton,  Esq., 
Penny ville,  Pennsylvania. '  Well,  child,  —  but 
how  did  it  come  this  time  of  day?  Oh,  it  was 
in  the  bag  yesterday,  after  all?" 

Amanda  was  quite  pale ;  she  pushed  back  a 
lock  of  hair  from  her  high  bleak  forehead. 
"Mother,  do  you  know,  that  came  day  before 
yesterday.  That 's  the  letter  he  was  inquiring 
after.  It  got  shoved  into  one  of  the  low  pigeon 
holes.  My  goodness,  mother  !  " 

This  burst  of  excitement  really  alarmed  Mrs. 
Gedge.  "Why,  child,  you  needn't  be  so  put 


220      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

out.  He  ain't  in  town.  And  I  don't  know  as 
I  'd  send  it  up  to  his  house,  anyhow;  if  he  gets 
it  when  he  comes  home,  he  '11  know  it 's  been 
delayed,  and  then  he  '11  fuss  about  it.  I  don't 
believe  I  'd  send  it,  'Mandy  ?  " 

"Oh,  mother,  I  don't  hardly  think  that  would 
do,"  Amanda  said.  "You  know  the  Govern 
ment  "- 

"Well,  perhaps  so,"  Mrs.  Gedge  assented, 
reluctantly.  "Course,  I  wouldn't  think  of  such 
a  thing  if  it  was  anybody  else.  But  that  man ! 
and  he  's  gone  now,  anyhow,  and  probably  he  's 
found  out  what  was  in  the  letter  by  this  time, 
so  he  hasn't  any  need  of  it;  and,  you  know, 
he's  had  no  experience;  he  don't  understand 
how  a  mistake  could  be  made.  Well,  I  don't 
see  myself,  'Mandy,  how  you  could  get  that 
letter  into  one  of  those  pigeon  holes.  There, 
it  is  n't  any  matter,  child.  Send  it  up  with  his 
noon  mail." 

"No;  I  must  take  it,"  said  Amanda,  firmly. 
"I  '11  have  to  bundle  you  up,  mother,  and  wheel 
you  into  the  office.  It  '11  take  me  an  hour  to 
go  and  come,  and  the  office  can't  be  shut  up  all 
that  time." 

Mrs.  Gedge  did  not  half  like  it,  she  said ;  it 
was  not  rijjht  for  the  Government  to  wait  on 

O 

Mr.  Hamilton  by  carrying  him  his  letters;  it 
was  trouble  enough  to  sort  them  out,  she  de- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      221 

dared;  but  nevertheless  she  permitted  Amanda 
to  push  her  wheeled  chair  through  the  shed,  and 
place  her  on  the  official  side  of  the  pigeon  holes, 
within  easy  reach  of  the  stamp  drawer  and  the 
letter  scales.  If  anybody  wanted  gumdrops  or 
writing  paper  they  would  have  to  help  them 
selves,  and  bring  her  the  change. 

Amanda  put  on  her  overshoes,  which  she, 
like  the  rest  of  Penny ville,  called  "gums,"  and 
a  rusty  black  waterproof  cloak,  which  was  thin 
and  skinny  and  soaked  up  more  rain  than  it 
shed.  She  wore  a  faded  straw  hat  with  a  barege 
veil  tied  around  its  crown.  Her  large  freckled 
face  was  pale,  and  her  anxious  eyes  looked  out 
from  under  a  forehead  that  was  creased  with 
troubled  lines.  Clutched  tightly  in  the  hand 
which  held  her  skirts  very  well  up  out  of  the 
mud,  was  Mr.  Hamilton's  letter. 

It  had  rained  since  before  dawn,  and  the 
branches  of  the  sycamores  and  lindens  had  given 
up  almost  all  those  few  yellow  leaves  to  which 
they  had  clung  since  the  last  frost.  The  ground 
on  the  footpaths  was  covered  with  them,  and 
the  streaming  air  was  heavy  with  the  dank  aro 
matic  scent  of  autumn.  The  wheel  ruts  were 
full  of  running  yellow  water.  Amanda  picked 
her  way  carefully,  but  her  Congress  gaiters  were 
soaked  above  her  overshoes,  and  even  the  white 
stockings  on  her  lean  ankles  were  splashed. 


222      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

She  was  glad  it  had  not  rained  yesterday,  she 
said  to  herself;  and  then  she  thought  of  the 
wreath  of  immortelles,  ami  hoped  the  colors 
would  n't  run.  She  sighed  as  she  remembered 
the  tintype  set  into  the  slate  headstone  under 
the  piece  of  glass,  which  to-day  must  be  so  spat 
tered  with  rain  that  the  young  soldier  in  his 
uniform  could  not  be  seen.  How  beautiful  it 
would  be  to  have  the  black  and  white  crayon ! 
Amanda  knew  just  where  it  was  going  to  hang 
on  the  parlor  wall,  and  she  had  a  plan  about  a 
cross  of  purple  immortelles  to  place  above  it. 

By  the  time  Mr.  Hamilton's  house  was  in 
sight  Amanda  had  gone  through  a  calculation 
as  to  how  long  it  would  take  her,  putting  aside 
five  cents  a  week,  to  save  up  the  three  dollars 
and  eighty  cents  which  the  required  sum  still 
lacked,  granting  that  nothing  else  came  to  claim 
her  hoard.  This  calculation  seemed  to  bring  the 
crayon  nearer,  and  cheered  her,  in  spite  of  the 
rain  and  the  burden  upon  her  conscience.  She 
hurried  up  the  driveway  to  the  front  door,  which 
was  opened  by  John. 

"Oh,  Jolin,"  said  the  postmistress,  out  of 
breath  and  embarrassed,  yet  holding  her  gaunt 
shoulders  proudly,  and  ignoring  the  way  in 
which  her  hair,  lanky  with  rain,  had  blown  into 
her  eyes;  "John,  this  letter  was  — overlooked. 
You  may  give  it  to  Mr.  Hamilton." 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      223 

John  took  the  letter  curiously.  "  Well,  now ! 
When  did  it  come?"  He  paused  to  examine  it 
closely.  "Yes,  it's  postmarked  Washington. 
Why,  Miss  Gedge,  it 's  the  one  he  was  lookin' 
for  two  days  ago.  They  had  to  telegraph  him 
to  come  on.  Lord !  he  kicked  like  a  steer  about 
it.  'Postal  delays,'  says  he.  Obliged  to  you 
for  bring-in'  it,  miss." 

Amanda  did  not  reply ;  she  was  gathering  her 
skirts  up  under  her  waterproof  again,  and  shak 
ing  open  her  umbrella. 

"You  might  'a'  saved  yourself,"  John  pro 
tested,  politely;  "he  's  fetched  up  in  Washing 
ton  by  this  time;  so  the  letter  ain't  needed,  as 
you  might  say." 

Amanda  nodded,  and  went  plodding  down  the 
carriage  road,  her  tall  body  leaning  against  the 
wind  that  twisted  the  waterproof  around  her 
ankles  and  beat  her  umbrella  over  sidewise ;  the 
blue  barege  veil  hung  wet  and  straight  over  one 
shoulder.  A  cold  misgiving  fastened  itself  upon 
her  heart.  "Postal  delays."  And  Mr.  Hamil 
ton  was  in  Washington ;  suppose  he  should  find 
fault,  —  suppose  it  should  reach  the  Govern 
ment?  Not  but  what  the  intimacy  of  their  re 
lations  with  the  Government  would  make  an 
explanation  simple  enough;  but  yet  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  think  that  Mr.  Hamilton  might  speak 
to  the  President  in  some  unkind  way  of  her 


224      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

mother.  She  wished  the  President  could  know 
how  they  revered  him.  She  had  never  begrudged 
her  father  and  Willie  Boyce  to  her  country ;  she 
wished,  if  Mr.  Hamilton  did  say  anything,  that 
the  President  might  understand  all  that;  but  of 
course  he  could  not.  Probably  Mr.  Hamilton 
would  not  think  to  mention  her  father  and  Wil 
lie,  even  if  he  knew  about  them,  and  —  Amanda 
tried  to  be  just,  even  to  Mr.  Hamilton  —  it  was 
pretty  plain  that  he  did  not  know,  seeing  that 
he  was  "so  unreasonable  and  fault-finding." 

The  wind  suddenly  twisted  her  umbrella,  and 
her  face  was  wet  with  rain ;  and  then  something 
warm  went  rolling  do  ,vn  her  cheek.  She  had 
not  known  that  she  was  crying. 


III. 

When  Amanda  had  put  on  some  dry  clothing 
she  hurried  into  the  office,  for  there  was  much 
to  do  before  the  arrival  of  the  noon  stage. 
What  with  her  work,  and  listening  to  Mrs. 
Gedge's  minute  account  of  all  that  had  tran 
spired  in  her  absence,  she  had  no  time  before 
the  mail  came  to  tell  her  mother  of  her  anxieties. 
Amanda  listened  to  every  word  of  the  small 
happenings  with  close  attention  :  Sally  Goodrich 
had  come  in  for  two  stamps,  and  her  five-cent 
piece  had  rolled  down  in  that  crack  by  the  stove  ; 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      225 

but  Mrs.  Gedge  had  said,  "Never  mind,  Sally, 
you  can  have  them  just  as  well ;  "  for  it  was  rain 
ing,  as  Amanda  knew,  and  Sally  Goodrich  at 
her  age  —  she  was  sixty-one,  if  she  was  a  day  — • 
could  not  go  back  in  the  rain  just  for  four  cents; 
besides,  the  five  cents  was  really  in  the  post- 
office,  and  if  the  floor  should  ever  be  raised 
they  'd  get  it.  Mrs.  Gedge,  having  been  silent 
for  an  hour,  talked  in  a  steady,  cheerful  stream, 
broken  only  by  Amanda's  little  interjections  of 
surprise  and  interest. 

But  after  dinner,  which  the  noon  delivery  of 
the  mail  made  sometimes  as  late  as  one  o'clock, 
Amanda  could  not  help  saying  that  she  wished 
that  that  letter  had  belonged  to  anybody  else 
than  Mr.  Hamilton. 

"Oh,  you  take  it  too  much  to  heart,  child," 
Mrs.  Gedge  reassured  her.  "Why,  'Mandy, 
he  's  only  a  summer  person;  he  '11  go  away,  and 
we  won't  see  or  hear  of  him  till  next  summer, 
nor  his  sister  either.  They  're  a  pair  of  old 
maids,  the  two  of  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Gedge,  with 
a  chuckle,  her  bright  black  eyes  snapping  with 
good-natured  impatience. 

"Well,  mother,  may  be  that's  so,"  said 
Amanda,  doubtfully,  "but  Mr.  Hamilton's  John 
took  the  letter,  and  he  seemed  to  think  Mr. 
Hamilton  was  dreadfully  put  out  about  it.  He 
said  that  he  kicked.  I  suppose  he  meant  that 
he  stamped  his  foot." 


226      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Mrs.  Gedge  gave  her  cap  strings  a  jerk. 
"Well,  what  if  he  did?  It  shows  he  's  a  very 
bad-tempered  man,  that 's  all." 

"Yes;  only  —  he's  in  Washington,  mother." 

Mrs.  Gedge  did  not  seem  to  understand  for 
a  moment,  and  then  she  suddenly  looked  con 
cerned.  "Well,  now,  Amanda,  how  could  you 
overlook  that  letter?  Dear  me,  child,  I  don't 
see  how  you  did  it.  Why,  if  he  's  in  Washing 
ton,  he  might  say  something  to  the  Government. 
I  tell  you,  I  wouldn't  like  that,  Amanda!  " 

Amanda  sighed,  and  shook  her  head.  "If 
there  was  any  excuse,"  she  said;  "but  there 
isn't.  It  was  —  it  was  the  28th  of  October, 
mother,  you  know;  the  day  before  the  —  29th; 
—  and  I  was  sort  of  dull.  Well,  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  write  that  to  Washington?" 

"It's  a  very  good  excuse,"  cried  Mrs.  Gedge. 
"I'd  like  them  to  know  just  what  excuse  we 
have,  if  he  should  say  anything  —  but  I  don't 
believe  he  will,  'Mandy  —  I  'd  like  them  to 
know  we  didn't  mean  to  be  neerlectful." 

o 

The  kitchen  had  grown  dark  with  rain  and 
early  dusk,  and  a  chill  had  crept  into  the  air  in 
spite  of  the  crackling  fire  in  the  stove. 

"  Well,  now,  'Mandy,  I  '11  tell  you  what  would 
be  a  good  thing;  better  than  writing,"  Mrs. 
Gedge  said,  thoughtfully;  "send  a  present." 

"To  Mr.  Hunter?  "  said  Amanda.    Mr.  Hun- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      227 

ter  was  the  gentleman  who  signed  the  occasional 
communications  from  Washington,  and  to  whom 
they  submitted  their  quarterly  accounts. 

"I  meant  the  President,"  said  Mrs.  Gedge, 
doubtfully,  "but  I  don't  know  but  what  Mr. 
Hunter  would  be  better.  Then,  if  Mr.  Hamil 
ton  should  presume  to  find  fault,  Mr.  Hunter 
would  know  that  our  intentions  were  all  right." 

"Oh,  mother,  I  don't  know,"  Amanda  de 
murred.  "May  be  we  'd  better  not  do  anything. 
May  be  he  won't  complain." 

But  Mrs.  Gedge  was  positive.  "No;  a  pres 
ent  is  friendly,  and  he  's  probably  a  busy  man, 
being  in  a  big  post-office ;  so,  if  he  has  a  present 
from  us,  it  will  be  easier  for  him  to  keep  us  in 
mind  as  being  friendly." 

"Well,  mother,  you're  right,  I  guess.  And 
yet  it  seems  sort  of  queer,  don't  you  think? 
And  what  could  you  send  him?  " 

"Oh,  I've  thought  of  that!"  cried  Mrs. 
Gedge.  "We  can  send  word  by  Oily  Clough 
to  his  friend  at  Mercer  to  buy  an  album,  —  a 
blue  velvet  album  like  Sally  Goodrich' s,  with 
those  steel  trimmings  and  clasps." 

Amanda  was  moved  at  the  prospect,  but  sud 
denly  her  face  fell.  "Mother,  Sally's  album 
cost  nine  dollars  and  ninety-five  cents,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Gedge  was  dismayed.  "Perhaps  we 
needn't  get  such  an  expensive  one?" 


228      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

"No;  if  we  get  any,  it  ought  to  be  a  hand 
some  one,"  Amanda  said,  sadly.  "Well,  mo 
ther,  you  can  may  be  begin  to  make  the  toast 
for  tea,  and  I  '11  run  over  to  the  office  and  see 
if  we  've  got  the  money  to  spare." 

Mrs.  Gedge  was  quite  cheerful  by  that  time, 
and  she  chatted  merrily  all  the  evening  of  Mr. 
Hunter,  and  his  surprise  and  pleasure  at  being 
remembered  by  humble  officers  of  that  Govern 
ment  to  which  he  himself  rendered  more  impor 
tant  but  not  more  loyal  service. 

"Why,  child,"  Mrs.  Gedge  said,  suddenly, 
in  the  middle  of  supper,  putting  down  the  cup 
she  had  just  raised  to  her  lips, — "\vhy,'Mandy, 
suppose  I  was  to  write  a  poem,  and  send  with 
it?" 

Ever  since  Willie  Boyce  died,  Mrs.  Gedge 
had  meant  to  write  another  poem,  but  there  had 
been  no  occasion  great  enough  to  inspire  her. 

"Well,  now,  that  is  a  good  idea,"  Amanda 
answered  proudly.  "It  would  be  real  pretty  to 
send  a  poem  with  the  present." 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  meal  Mrs.  Gedge 
tried  excitedly  to  find  words  that  rhymed  with 
Hunter,  but  they  were  so  scarce,  "and  not  real 
sensible,"  she  said,  that  she  turned  to  "album," 
which  was  hardly  more  successful,  although  it 
rhymed  well  enough  with  "dumb,"  and  "come," 
but  she  did  not  just  see  what  words  she  could 


A  FOUETH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      229 

get  in  along  the  line.  Amanda  tried  to  help 
her  mother,  but  she  sighed  once  or  twice  as  she 
heard  the  rain  on  the  kitchen  roof,  and  thought 
of  the  tintype  under  the  misty  glass. 

The  commission  was  given  Oily  the  next 
morning.  lie  was  to  tell  his  friend,  who  was, 
Oily  said,  "a  traveling  commission  merchant," 
to  be  certain,  the  very  next  time  he  came  out 
from  Mercer  to  Pennyville,  to  bring  a  blue  al 
bum.  If  he  could  find  one  that  had  two  flags 
crossed  on  the  clasp,  like  Sally's,  he  was  to  get 
it,  even  if  it  cost  a  quarter  more.  He  was  to 
try,  however,  to  find  one  just  as  good  as  Sally's 
for,  may  be,  a  dollar  less.  Oily  was  so  hopeful 
that  his  friend  could  economize  that  Mrs.  Gedge 
checked  him. 

"It  isn't  the  money,  Oily,  that  you  consider 
when  you  're  getting  a  present  for  a  friend,  it 's 
the  album ;  it  must  be  the  best.  It  must  be  as 
good  as  Sally's." 

After  that  there  were  many  days  of  expecta 
tion,  for  no  one  could  tell  when  Olly's  friend 
would  arrive.  In  Mrs.  Gedge 's  mind,  the  rea 
son  for  the  present  had  faded  in  the  excitement 
of  the  present  itself.  It  had  been  easier,  no 
doubt,  to  forget  the  reason  because  Mr.  Hamil 
ton  had  not  come  home.  Indeed,  when,  flushed 
with  triumph,  on  the  Wednesday  following  the 
second  Tuesday  in  November,  John  came  into 


230      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

the  post-office  for  the  mail,  he  volunteered  the 
information  that  very  likely  Miss  Hamilton 
would  close  the  house,  and  join  her  brother  in 
Washington. 

"We'll  be  there  this  winter,"  said  John, 
with  an  important  air,  "though  of  course  we 
won't  get  to  work  before  the  4th  of  March." 

This  news  that  Mr.  Hamilton  might  not  re 
turn  was  a  relief  to  Mrs.  Gedge,  but  still  more 
so  to  Amanda.  She  seemed  to  breathe  more 
freely,  for,  ever  since  John's  betrayal  of  his 
master's  temper,  she  had  dreaded  a  scene  with 
Mr.  Hamilton  in  the  post-office.  "I'd  put 
him  out  with  my  own  hands,"  she  had  thought, 
"rather  than  have  mother  worried."  But  the 
danger  was  averted,  and  in  her  thankfulness 
Amanda  was  reconciled  to  what  she  had  come 
to  think  was  really  a  very  unnecessary  expendi 
ture  of  money,  for  Olly's  friend  would  probably 
not  be  able  to  return  any  change  from  the  nine 
dollars  and  ninety -five  cents  which  had  been  in 
trusted  him. 

It  was  not  until  well  into  December  that  the 
friend  "got  around"  to  Penny ville.  When  he 
did,  it  was  a  great  day  at  the  post-office.  He 
came  on  the  noon  stage,  and  brought  a  large 
package  with  him.  Oily  handed  in  the  mail- 
bag  at  the  same  time ;  but  no  one  could  think 
of  that  until  the  package  had  been  opened,  and 


A  FOUETH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      231 

the  album,  covered  with  rich  bright  blue  plush, 
very  soft  and  deep,  and  indented  with  oxidized 
clasps,  had  been  displayed  and  admired.  Every 
one  who  called  for  a  possible  letter  was  quite 
willing  to  wait  a  half -hour  until  the  excited  rep 
resentatives  of  the  Government  were  able  to 
attend  to  their  duties.  This  willingness  spoke 
much  for  the  good  nature  of  the  Public,  as  well 
as  for  its  patience,  for  neither  Mrs.  Gedge  nor 
Amanda  confided  the  purpose  of  the  album.  It 
was  "a  gift,"  they  said,  and  with  that  the  ad 
miring  and  inconvenienced  Public  was  forced  to 
be  content.  It  was  curious,  where  their  official 
relations  were  concerned,  to  see  the  reticence  of 
these  two  simple  women  who  had  not  a  secret 
of  their  own.  Their  reserve  was  perhaps  the 
most  striking  indication  of  their  pride  of  office. 
The  people  who  had  not  received  any  mail 
lingered  longest,  kicking  their  steaming  boots 
against  the  little  ledge  about  the  stove,  and 
waiting,  as  though  in  the  hope  that  a  relenting 
afterthought  on  the  part  of  the  postmistress 
might  create  a  letter.  But  when  the  last  disap 
pointed  correspondent  went  tramping  out  into 
the  snow,  the  mother  and  daughter  gave  them 
selves  up  to  the  contemplation  of  their  treasure. 
They  took  it  back  into  the  kitchen,  and  placed 
it,  with  almost  reverent  care,  on  the  crazy  patch 
work  cover  of  the  table ;  then  they  touched  the 


232      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

plush  to  see  how  soft  it  was,  and  studied  the  pat 
tern  on  the  clasps,  and  counted  the  pages.  It  was 
a  most  exciting,  a  most  exhausting  afternoon. 

Sally  Goodrich  came  in  at  dusk  to  have  a 
look  at  the  album.  She  was  a  little  condescend 
ing  at  first,  but  its  magnificence  overpowered 
her,  and  she  honestly  confessed  that  it  was  far 
handsomer  than  hers.  She  said  that  she  pre 
sumed  the  person  it  was  for  would  be  real 
pleased?  But  the  tentative  assertion  did  not 
flatter  the  mother  or  daughter  into  giving  her 
the  information  she  desired.  They  were  impa 
tient  to  be  alone,  that  they  might  compose  the 
letter  which  was  to  accompany  the  gift. 

They  did  not,  however,  get  at  it  until  after  tea, 
and  when  they  did,  Mrs.  Gedge  could  not  easily 
resign  the  idea  of  poetry ;  but  Hunter  was  not  a 
name  that  charmed  tEe  Muse. 

"'Oh,  traveler/  "  Mrs.  Gedge  began,  "'who 
ever  you  may  be  '  •  I  could  use  as  much  as 
that  of  Willie's  poem,  'Mandy?  Dear  !  I  do 
hate  to  be  put  out  just  by  a  name.  I  suppose 
I  need  n't  put  it  at  the  end  of  a  line,  but  it 
seems  to  come  that  way  in  my  mind.  Hum  — 
hum  —  hum  —  Mr.  Hunter  !  " 

They  struggled  over  this  with  patient  earnest 
ness  before  turning  to  sober  prose ;  but  at  half 
past  nine  a  letter  was  at  last  composed,  and 
Mrs.  Gedge  went  to  bed,  weary  and  happy,  ap- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      233 

palled  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  charging 
Amanda  to  be  careful  of  the  album.  Amanda 
tucked  it  up  in  its  box,  under  a  sheet  of  tissue- 
paper,  as  tenderly  as  though  it  were  a  baby.  It 
lay  on  the  table  at  Mrs.  Gedge's  bedside,  and 
when  Amanda  got  up  the  next  morning  at  half 
past  five  to  make  the  fire,  she  found  her  mother 
awake,  and  anxious,  for  a  look  at  the  beautiful 
book  before  she  arose. 

"I  can't  wait  till  I  get  up,  child,"  she  said, 
her  eyes,  under  the  full  ruffle  of  her  nightcap, 
bright  with  excitement  and  pride. 

It  was  hard  to  part  with  the  album  by  the 
noon  stage,  but  it  had  to  go,  and  the  letter, 
prim,  and  full  of  respectful  assurances  of  re 
gard,  went  with  it.  How  the  thoughts  of  the 
contented  donors  followed  it  along  each  step  of 
its  journey!  Mrs.  Gedge  was  concerned  about 
the  weather;  she  said  that  she  hoped  the  snow 
wouldn't  drift  badly  on  the  hill  road;  Amanda 
would  remember  how  Olly's  father's  stage  had 
upset  on  the  hill  road  in  the  great  storm?  In 
an  accident  like  that,  an  express  package  could 
so  easily  be  lost,  she  said,  anxiously.  She  and 
Amanda  calculated  the  exact  moment  that  it 
would  reach  Washington,  and  the  earliest  date 
when  an  acknowledgment  could  be  looked  for. 

By  this  time  —  mid-December  —  Mrs.  Gedge 
had  quite  forgotten  Mr.  Hamilton.  Her  life 


234      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

had  too  many  pleasant  and  interesting  things  in 
it  to  allow  her  to  think  about  a  bad-tempered 
man,  who  was  nothing  but  a  summer  visitor 
anyhow.  Amanda,  too,  had  almost  put  aside 
her  fear,  although  the  tintype  up  on  the  hillside 
and  the  vacant  spot  on  the  parlor  wall  were  con 
stant  reminders  that  propitiation  had  seemed 
necessary.  Mrs.  Gedge  did  not  admit  that 
the  album  had  been  propitiatory;  their  gift  was 
simply  a  pleasant  courtesy  to  an  equal,  for  were 
they  not  both  officers  of  the  same  great  and 
beneficent  Government?  That  Mr.  Hunter's 
acknowledgment  seemed  long  in  coming  could 
not  alter  that  fact;  very  likely  he  was  away, 
or  may  be  there  was  sickness  in  his  family,  as 
Amanda  had  more  than  once  suggested.  But  it 
certainly  was  long  in  coming,  for  the  1st  of  Jan 
uary  found  Mr.  Hunter's  manners  still  at  fault. 

Yet  although  the  post-office  had  forgotten 
Mr.  Hamilton,  Mr.  Hamilton,  now  that  the 
immediate  excitement  of  the  second  Tuesday  of 
November  was  over  —  Mr.  Hamilton  remem 
bered  the  post-office. 

"I  tell  you,  Philip,"  he  said  one  evening,  as 
he  and  a  friend  sat  over  their  wine  after  dinner, 

"I  toll  you,  the  Post-office  Department  of 
this  country  needs  a  tremendous  shaking  up. 
Yes,  sir;  heads  have  got  to  fall.  I  have  a  sum 
mer  house  in  that  little  place,  Pennyville,  you 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      235 

know,  up  in  the  hills,  and  for  all  practical  pur 
poses  there  is  no  post-office  there;  outrageous 
carelessness  and  endless  inconvenience.  But  I 
intend  to  do  my  part  to  secure  a  proper  postal 
service  to  my  native  land." 

"At  least  during  the  summer ?"  commented 
the  other  man.  But  Mr.  Hamilton  ignored  the 
sarcasm. 

"There  's  a  good  fellow,  a  good  hustling  fel 
low,  that  I  mean  to  have  put  there.  William 
Sprague  —  you  remember  ?  He  was  my  substi 
tute  ;  he  has  a  ball  in  his  leg  now  that  belongs 
to  me.  I  'm  going  to  speak  to  Stevenson,  and 
have  that  job  given  to  him.  I  've  always  meant 
to  do  something  for  him." 

"Ah,  howl  respect  a  philanthropist!"  said 
his  friend;  "and  how  just  it  is  that,  because  he 
was  your  substitute  in  the  war,  the  nation  should 
reward  him !  And  yet  I  thought  that  civil  ser 
vice  reform  was  alluded  to  in  your  Convention  ? 
Correct  me  if  I  am  wronsr." 

O 

"Oh,  bah!"  answered  the  other,  laughing, 
and  knocking  his  cigar  ashes  off  against  his 
wineglass.  "Shore,  we  've  been  out  in  the  cold 
for  twenty-four  years,  and  we  don't  propose  to 
keep  away  from  the  fire  to  split  the  straws  of 
ethics.  You  may  consider  that  statement  offi 
cial,  my  boy." 

"Is  that  the  excuse  you  will  give  to  the  pres- 


236      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

ent  incumbent  when  you  tip  him  or  her  out?    It 
will  have  all  the  merit  of  truth." 

"Look  here,  my  young  reformer,"  protested 
the  other  man,  "I  advise  you  to  take  off  your 
kid  gloves.  These  ideas  of  yours  are  too 
damned  fine  for  our  humble  capital.  Yes,  sir ; 
they  will  do  for  Boston,  and  I  am  sure  we  are 
grateful  that  the  chaste  bosom  of  the  Boston 
mugwump  should  have  thrilled  for  us  because 
of  our  highly  moral  principles;  but,  my  dear 
fellow,  now  we  have  come  down  to  business  in 
spite  of  our  principles.  We  are  a  great  deal 
more  honest  than  the  people  you  helped  us  put 
out,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  we  are  hu 
man.  This  may  surprise  you,  as  you  reflect 
upon  our  virtues,  but  we  admit  it  —  human. 
And  how  shall  we  dispose  of  the  present  incum 
bents  in  Pennyville?"  He  rose,  with  a  jolly, 
rollicking  laugh,  straightening  his  shoulders, 
and  lifting  his  handsome  head.  "Why,  Lord 
bless  you!  offensive  partisanship,  to  be  sure. 
Seriously,  they  are  hopelessly  inefficient;  a 
couple  of  old  maids,  who  hold  back  the  mail- 
bags,  lose  a  man's  letters,  or  deliver  them  a 
week  after  they've  arrived.  Why,  look  here; 
here  's  an  instance:  That  letter  from  the  Secre 
tary  about  the  Cincinnati  matter  was  over 
looked  three  clays.  Thank  the  Lord,  Beardsley 
had  the  sense  to  telegraph ;  he  knew  the  Secre- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      237 

tiry  had  written.  Now,  you  know,  that  would 
have  cost  me  more  than  it  is  agreeable  to  con 
template.  I  swear  it  was  offensive  partisanship. 
Deliberate  injury  to  a  political  opponent  —  if 
Beardsley  hadn't  had  the  sense  to  telegraph!" 
He  laughed,  and  then  struck  the  younger  man 
good-naturedly  on  the  shoulder.  "See  here, 
Philip,  don't,  by  the  fineness  of  your  theories, 
make  yourself  unfit  for  practical  life.  Remem 
ber  what  we  've  got  to  deal  with.  Be  as  good 
as  you  can,  but,  for  the  very  sake  of  your  theo 
ries,  don't  be  too  good.  Doesn't  the  Bible  say 
somewhere,  don't  be  righteous  overmuch  ?  Well, 
a  printed  notice  of  that  ought  to  be  sent  around 
to  the  mugwumps!  " 


IV. 

"It  does  seem,"  Mrs.  Gedge  said,  when,  to 
wards  the  end  of  January,  no  acknowledgment 
had  come  from  Mr.  Hunter,  —  "it  does  seem  as 
though  something  had  happened  to  that  album." 

"  Well,  mother,  Oily  saw  it  safe  into  the  ex 
press  office;  it  must  have  got  to  Washington, 
anyhow." 

"You  don't  suppose,"  Mrs.  Gedge  queried, 
in  a  troubled  voice,  —  "you  don't  think  he  could 
have  thought  it  was  out  of  the  way,  two  ladies 
sending  him  a  present  ?  It  was  in  our  official 


238      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

capacity,  Amanda;  I  hope  I  know  better  than 
to  do  it  in  any  other  way." 

"My,  mother!  of  course  he  understands  it," 
Amanda  assured  her.  "It 's  just  as  I  say,  sick 
ness  in  his  family,  or  something,  has  put  it  out 
of  his  mind.  We  '11  hear  soon.  Now  don't  you 
worry;  it  was  a  nice  gift,  and  will  look  pretty 
on  his  centre-table,  — you  can  be  sure  of  that." 
They  had  followed  the  album  so  closely  with 
their  fancy  that  they  knew  quite  well  how  it 
looked.  Mrs.  Gedge  had  even  said  that  she 
hoped  his  wife  was  not  a  foolish  young  thing, 
who  would  know  no  more  than  to  put  other  books 
on  top  of  it,  and  crush  the  plush. 

Poor  Amanda  began  to  dread  the  coming  of 
the  mail-bag,  fo*  each  day  there  was  always 
the  same  hesitating  question:  "I  suppose  you 
didn't  hear  to-day,  'Mandy?  I  somehow  didn't 
look  for  a  letter  to-day." 

"No,  mother,  not  to-day,"  and  then  some 
little  excuse :  "  lie  would  have  had  to  write  on 
Monday  to  reach  us  by  this  mail,  and  Monday  's 
a  real  inconvenient  day;  "  or,  "I  guess  he  's  put 
off  writing  till  the  end  of  the  week;  "  or,  "It 's 
the  first  of  the  month,  and  you  know  how  busy 
the  post-office  is;  very  likely  he  's  real  driven 
with  his  accounts." 

But  day  by  day  Mrs.  Gedge 's  assurance  that 
she  knew  it  was  all  right,  of  course,  and  that 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      239 

she  knew,  too,  in  her  position,  "how  hard  it  was 
for  some  folks  to  write  letters,"  —day  by  day 
such  assurances  grew  more  evidently  forced  in 
their  cheerfulness,  and  when  at  last  the  1st  of 
February  passed,  and  the  usual  official  commu 
nication  from  Washington  failed  to  bring  with  it 
any  personal  communication,  Amanda  said  to 
herself  that  she  couldn't  stand  it.  They  had 
written  to  the  express  office,  and  learned  that 
the  package  had  been  received  and  delivered,  so 
they  could  not  even  have  the  comfort  of  think 
ing  that  it  was  lost. 

Amanda's  high  forehead  gathered  new  wrin 
kles  in  those  bleak  winter  days,  and  anxiety 
gnawed  at  her  heart,  for  the  suspense  was  wear 
ing  upon  her  mother.  Sometimes  she  thought 
of  writing  to  Mr.  Hunter,  imploring  him  to  just 
say  that  he  had  received  the  present;  but  how 
could  she  deceive  her  mother,  or  have  a  secret 
from  her? 

One  afternoon,  coming  home  from  sewing  so 
ciety,  she  stopped  on  the  bridge  to  look  into  the 
water,  and  think.  Some  uncertain,  hesitating 
flakes  were  wandering  through  the  gray  air, 
marking  the  hurrying  stream  with  fine  white 
touches,  then  fading  into  its  blackness.  Aman 
da's  breath  caught  in  a  sob.  "  Oh  my  goodness, 
that  old  album!  "  she  said  to  herself.  Her  re 
sentment  at  the  album,  which  was  surely  respon- 


240      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

sible  for  Mrs.  Gedge's  feebleness,  was  only  an 
expression  of  her  own  dull  ache  of  apprehension. 

The  water  came  racing  down  the  wide,  shallow 
bed  of  the  creek,  leaping  with  tumultuous  rip 
ples  over  the  larger  stones,  and  sending  a  faint 
continuous  jar  along  the  worn  hand-rail  of  the 
bridge,  nicked  and  whittled  by  each  generation 
of  Pennyville  boys.  It  was  freezing,  and  the  ice 
curved  in  and  out  along  the  curving  shore  in 
clear  and  snowy  lines,  like  wonderful  onyx  or 
agate  bands.  Tho  branch  of  a  maple,  dipping 
into  the  water,  had  encased  its  twigs  in  a  fringe 
of  icicles  that  jangled  as  they  rose  and  fell  on 
the  current.  The  cold  dusk  and  the  vague,  un 
certain  snow  seemed  to  Amanda  the  embodiment 
of  disappointment.  She  plucked  a  splinter  of 
wood  from  the  rail  on  which  she  leaned,  and 
dropped  it  into  the  creek,  watching  it  swirl  on 
the  black  water  and  go  hurrying  under  the  bridge ; 
and  then  she  went  slowly  home.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  tell  her  mother  that  she  believed 
Mr.  Hunter  was  dead.  She  felt  sure  that  this 
would  be  a  sort  of  comfort  to  Mrs.  Gedge,  and 
Amanda  was  willing  to  mourn  Mr.  Hunter,  if 
his  demise  would  excuse  his  carelessness  towards 
her  mother. 

She  did  not  propose  this  solution  of  the  puzzle 
until  the  next  morning,  and  then  Mrs.  Gedge's 
concern  about  the  Sixth  Auditor  of  the  Treasury 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      241 

was  almost  as  alarming  as  her  previous  suspense, 
so  that  Amanda,  with  a  desperate  feeling  of  not 
knowing  in  which  direction  to  turn  next,  made 
haste  to  qualify  her  suggestion,  or  even  take  it 
back  altogether. 

The  wind  was  high  and  cold  that  day,  but  the 
sun  shone,  and,  feeling  so  much  the  shock  of  the 
suggestion  concerning  Mr.  Hunter,  Mrs.  Gedge 
said  she  believed  she  would  not  get  up;  she  said 
the  glare  of  the  sun  on  the  snowy  roof  of  the 
post-office  hurt  her  eyes,  and  she  'd  rather  lie 
in  bed. 

Amanda's  heavy  heart  grew  still  heavier. 
"Mother's  failing,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
guess  he  's  well,  mother,"  she  assured  her.  "It 
was  real  foolish  for  me  to  think  he  was  n't. 
Why,  they  'd  have  sent  us  word  if  anything  had 
happened  to  him,  of  course.  I  don't  know 
what  I  was  thinking  of." 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  we  hear  from  the 
album?" 

But  Amanda  had  nothing  better  to  say  than, 
"Well,  now,  I  guess  we  will,  real  soon." 

"You  don't  think  anybody  thinks  anything, 
do  you,  'Mandy?  You  never  let  on  to  anybody 
—  Sally  Goodrich  or  anybody  —  that  it  was  for 
Mr.  Hunter,  and  he  hasn't  written?" 

"No,  mother;  no,  indeed.  There  is  n't  a 
person  that  guesses.  Nobody  but  Oily  saw  the 


242      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

address,  and  he  don't  know  who  Mr.  Hunter 
is;  he  don't  know  but  what  he  's  a  relation." 

There  were  no  demonstrations  of  affection  be 
tween  these  two ;  it  would  not  have  occurred  to 
Amanda  to  kiss  her  mother,  but  she  took  her 
little  blue  check  shawl  from  about  her  own 
shoulders  and  laid  it  across  Mrs.  Gedge's  feet. 
"I  '11  be  over  from  the  office  as  soon  as  ever  I 
can,"  she  said.  She  hurried  so  in  sorting  the 
mail  that  she  was  not  so  much  as  usual  on  the 
lookout  for  a  Washington  letter,  when,  sud 
denly,  she  found  it  in  her  hand.  Amanda's 
heart  seemed  to  come  up  in  her  throat;  she 
stopped  her  work  to  hold  the  letter  tight  in  her 
trembling  fingers.  It  had  come !  Her  mother 
would  surely  feel  better  and  get  up  for  dinner. 
In  the  confusion  of  her  thankfulness  the  impulse 
of  prayer  spoke  in  her  heart,  but  she  had  no 
words  except,  "  Oh,  mother  '11  get  up !  she  '11 
feel  better!" 

"Here's  a  bundle  for  you,  'Mandy,"  said 
Oily.  "I  clean  forgot  to  leave  it  when  I  hove 
in  the  bag." 

She  opened  the  delivery  window  and  took  the 
package,  but  she  was  too  joyfully  excited  to 
notice  it.  She  had  begun  to  put  the  mail  into 
the  pigeon  holes  with  one  hand,  holding  the 
precious  letter  tightly  in  the  other;  she  pushed 
the  bundle  a  little  to  one  side.  "It's  some 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      243 

blanks,  I  guess,"  she  thought.  It  seemed  to 
Amanda  that  Sally  Goodrich  was  never  so  long 
in  getting  her  purse  out  from  the  deep  pocket 
of  her  petticoat  to  pay  for  the  sheet  of  writing- 
paper  she  had  purchased ;  nor  was  Mr.  Thyme, 
who  kept  the  tavern,  ever  so  insistent  that  it 
was  time  for  inquiries  about  summer  board,  and 
he  didn't  see  why  there  weren't  no  letters  for 
him. 

In  spite  of  being  thus  delayed,  Amanda  was 
smiling  with  happiness  when  it  struck  her  that 
the  package  was  a  present  from  Mr.  Hunter. 
Oh,  this  was  almost  too  much  relief  and  joy! 
When  at  last  the  Public  had  gone,  she  seized 
the  bundle  and  the  letter,  and  ran  through  the 
shed,  the  red,  white,  and  blue  door  banging 
after  her  with  great  clatter  of  the  latch;  but 
Amanda  could  not  pause  to  close  it.  Oh,  the 
agitation  and  joy  of  these  two  women!  The 
rush  of  forgiveness  for  having  had  so  many  days 
of  waiting,  the  joyous  excitement  of  imagining 
Mr.  Hunter's  gratitude,  and  the  wonder  and 
awe  of  the  accompanying  package  ! 

"I  hope  he  didn't  feel  under  any  obligation 
to  give  us  a  present,  kind  as  it  is  in  him.  Open 
the  letter  first,  and  see  what  he  says.  Hurry, 
child!" 

Amanda's  fingers  blundered  with  the  envel 
ope,  and  she  read  in  a  breathless  way.  Mrs. 


244      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Gedge  sat  up  in  bed,  and  pushed  the  wide  ruffle 
of  her  nightcap  back,  so  that  nothing  might  es 
cape  her  delighted  eyes :  — 

'  Mr.  Hunter  desires  to  acknowledge  the 
receipt  of  a  package  from  Mrs.  Gedge,  as  per 
letter,  for  which  he  begs  to  express  his  thanks. 
He  regrets  that  he  must  herewith  return  the 
package,  his  position  precluding  the  acceptance 
of  gifts.'" 

Mrs.  Gedge  leaned  back  on  her  pillows,  with 
pitiful  fright  and  bewilderment  in  her  face. 
"'Mandy,  it's  our  album,"  she  said.  "Oh, 
'Mandy !  Her  cheeks  seemed  to  hollow  in, 
and  her  chin  shook.  "  'Mandy,  it 's  our  al 
bum!  "  she  whispered. 

Amanda  Gedge  stood  breathless.  "Why!" 
she  stammered,  "why,  mother;  why,  wait!  It 
must  be  all  right.  Oh,  mother,  don't  cry!" 
But  Amanda  was  crying  herself.  "I  think 
he  's  friendly;  let  me  read  it  again.  Now  lis 
ten,  mother;  he  begs  to  express  his  thanks,— 
begs,  mother.  Oh,  I'm  sure  he's  friendly. 
He  regrets, — that  means  he  is  very  sorry;  re 
gret  means  being  sorry,  mother.  And  it  is 
his  position,  the  letter  says,  that  makes  him 
return  it.  And  —  and  he  tells  the  person  who 
wrote  it  for  him  to  send  his  thanks,  mother. 


A  FOURTH- CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      245 

You  see,  he  's  so  busy  he  can't  even  write  him 
self." 

But  the  shock  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Gedge 
to  be  able  at  once  to  see  the  "friendliness"  in 
the  letter  written  by  "another  person."  She 
dropped  her  worn  old  face  on  the  pillow  and 
whimpered  like  a  child.  "Take  it  away,"  she 
said  feebly,  and  Amanda  carried  the  album  into 
the  kitchen.  She  was  so  excited  and  frightened 
about  her  mother,  so  angry  that  Mrs.  Gedge's 
gift  should  be  rejected,  that  the  quiet  woman 
touched  the  only  note  of  passion  that  had  ever 
come  into  her  life.  She  put  the  album  down  on 
the  table  with  something  like  violence,  and  then 
gave  it  a  shove  with  her  bony  hands,  and  said 
something  under  her  breath.  It  was  nothing 
more  than  "  You  !  "  but  Amanda  understood  the 
spirit  of  the  Third  Commandment  as  she  had 
never  in  her  placid  life  understood  it  before. 

It  was  several  days  before  Mrs.  Gedge  could 
look  calmly  at  the  album,  or  consider  the  letter 
reasonably,  but  little  by  little  she  began  to  say 
that  it  was  "all  right,"  and  she  believed  that 
Mr.  Hunter  was  friendly.  "It's  his  position, 
'Mandy,"  she  explained  again  and  again.  "He 
couldn't  help  sending  it  back;  he  told  the  per 
son  who  wrote  his  letter  for  him  to  say  he 
couldn't  help  it.  It 's  his  position." 

Meantime  March  was  blown  into  April;    it 


246      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

had  been  a  hard  month  for  Mrs.  Gedge,  with 
the  excitement  about  the  album  and  the  constant 
changes  in  the  temperature.  But  Mrs.  Gedge 
was  not  the  only  person  who  found  the  season 
trying.  William  Sprague  said  to  Mr.  Hamil 
ton,  who  dropped  in  in  the  friendliest  way  to 
see  him  one  day  at  his  news-stand  in  Mercer, 
—  he  told  Mr.  Hamilton  that  he  felt  that  old 
wound  in  his  leg  in  such  weather;  why,  he  be 
lieved  that  he  could  foretell  a  storm  as  much  as 
three  days  before  it  came,  and  he  said  he  did  n't 
know  but  what  he  'd  offer  his  services  to  the 
Weather  Bureau  in  Washington ;  and  then  he 
laughed,  and  said  he  believed  it  would  be  an 
easy  lay,  if  Mr.  Hamilton  would  excuse  his 
speaking  that  way.  But  Mr.  Hamilton  would 
not  let  him  talk  about  excusing  himself ;  he  said 
that  he  thought  William  would  be  the  better  for 
a  change;  and  then  he  said  a  dozen  words  that 
left  his  hearer  aghast  with  pleasure. 

"And  I  'm  to  be  ready  the  last  of  April,  sir? 
Well,  there  's  not  much  to  do.  I  '11  sell  out 
here,  and  pack  up  my  duds.  I  haven't  many, 
now  my  poor  wife  's  dead  and  gone.  I  auc 
tioned  off  most  of  the  furniture;  didn't  need  it, 
you  know." 

William  Sprague 's  face  was  red  with  excite 
ment.  He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  with  kindly, 
twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a  grizzled,  rough  red 


A  FOURTH  CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      247 

beard.  He  wore  a  G.  A.  R.  badge,  and  walked 
with  a  limp  and  roll ;  he  was  stiff  with  rheuma 
tism,  but  was  never  too  crippled  or  too  hurried 
to  stop  to  do  a  kindness,  —  pick  up  a  fallen 
child,  and  comfort  it  with  a  penny,  or  walk  an 
extra  mile  to  do  a  favor  for  a  friend.  And  yet 
his  friends  were  apt  to  say  he  was  contrary,  and 
cite  as  an  instance  his  long  feud  with  McCor- 
mick,  his  rival  on  the  next  block,  —  a  warfare 
waged  with  the  greatest  bitterness  on  Sprague's 
side,  and  furnishing  much  pleasant  interest  to 
those  not  concerned  in  it. 

"William  was  like  to  kill  him  till  McCor- 
mick  got  the  fever,  and  then,  darn  him !  he  up 
and  nursed  him  for  six  weeks.  But  they  're 
good  enemies  again  now." 

William  Sprague  liked  to  do  a  kindness,  but 
it  is  a  question  whether  he  could  do  a  kindness 
if  it  were  expected  of  him.  "I  won't  be  drov'," 
said  William ;  and  he  never  was. 

"I  '11  feel  bad  to  leave  some  of  my  friends," 
he  told  Mr.  Hamilton;  "but  I'm  obliged  to 
you,  I  'm  obliged  to  you,  sir.  There  's  nothing 
I  'd  like  better  than  to  run  a  post-office.  You 
can  count  on  my  vote  when  you  're  runnin'  for 
President.  Take  a  paper,  Mr.  Hamilton ;  take 
a  'Herald.' '  He  folded  a  paper  and  thrust  it 
into  the  hand  of  his  patron.  "No,  sir,  no,  sir; 
not  a  cent.  I  guess  I  can  give  you  a  paper; 
and  a  good  Democratic  organ,  sir." 


248      A  FOURTH -CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

He  laughed,  and  so  did  Mr.  Hamilton,  accept 
ing  the  present  with  gracious  politeness,  and 
lifting  his  hat  slightly  as  he  said :  — 

"Much  obliged,  Sprague.  Well,  good-morn 
ing.  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  settled  when  I 
get  down  to  my  country  house  in  June."  Then 
he  stooped  and  patted  Jimmy,  William's  rusty 
little  Scotch  terrier,  and  went  away. 

William  Sprague  was,  as  Mr.  Hamilton  said, 
a  capable,  efficient  man.  He  went  to  work  to 
wind  up  the  affairs  of  his  news-stand  in  a  me 
thodical  and  business-like  manner.  He  drove 
a  sharp  bargain  with  the  man  who  bought  him 
out,  and  cleared  ten  dollars  by  the  sale  of  odds 
and  ends  about  his  small  premises. 

"I  'd  meant  to  pitch  'em  into  the  ash  bar'l," 
he  confided  to  one  of  his  cronies,  "but  of  course 
I  didn't  tell  him  so.  I  said  I  was  going  to 
pack  'em  up  and  take  'em  along,  and  of  course 
that  made  him  hot  for  'em."  He  winked  and 
chuckled,  and  then  whistled  to  a  newsboy  across 
the  street,  and  tossed  a  quarter  to  him. 
"  Sonny,  if  you  '11  bring  in  a  dozen  of  the  fel 
lows  to-night,  I  '11  give  you  a  treat." 

And  he  did.  uHe  come  down  handsome," 
the  boys  said,  afterwards,  with  ice-cream  —  two 
kinds  —  and  three  doughnuts  apiece. 

The  days  went  slowly  to  William  Sprague, 
waiting  for  his  appointment,  but  they  passed 


A  FOURTH  CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      249 

with  placid  haste  to  Mrs.  Gedge.  She  had 
grown  reconciled  to  her  own  explanation  about 
the  album. 

"It  would  n't  have  been  proper,  'Mancly, 
for  him  to  accept  it.  I  can  see  that  now. 
And,  'Mandy,  I  don't  know  but  what  —  I 
thought  of  it  last  night,  lying  awake  —  I  don't 
know  but  what  we  did  wrong  about  that  blot 
ter.  You  know  the  blotter  with  ribbons  that 
Sally  Goodrich  gave  us  for  the  office  last  sum 
mer?  'Mandy,  it  was  n't  proper  to  receive 
presents  in  our  position !  " 

V. 

April  was  very  lovely  among  the  hills.  The 
sunshine,  threaded  sometimes  by  sudden  show 
ers,  and  chased  by  cloud  shadows  and  soft,  warm 
winds,  lay  like  a  smile  upon  the  meadows.  The 
lilac  buds  opened  like  green  stars,  and  had  that 
faint,  indefinable  fragrance  which  the  later  pur 
ple  blossoms  exaggerate  almost  into  coarseness. 
The  creeks  were  high,  and  the  whirling  brown 
waters  shook  the  wooden  bridges  in  a  threaten 
ing  way;  the  red  buds  of  the  maples  dipped 
into  the  flood,  and  strained  and  tugged  at  their 
stems  as  though  trying  to  be  off  on  its  turbulent 
freedom;  all  the  world  was  full  of  joyous  life 
and  promise. 


250      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Amanda  Gedge  went  up  to  the  burying- 
ground  on  the  hill  to  brush  away  the  sheltering 
dead  leaves  on  the  mound,  and  plant  a  root  of 
lilies  of  the  valley.  The  sky  was  softly  blue 
and  the  sun  was  warm  upon  the  slope,  and,  al 
though  it  was  indiscreet  for  a  person  who  was 
over  forty  and  rheumatic,  Amanda,  after  she 
had  performed  her  little  office  of  love,  spread 
out  her  shawl,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  to 
meditate.  Something  must  be  done  about  the 
tintype;  of  course  she  could  not  think  of  the 
crayon  for  a  year  or  two  yet ;  but  the  bit  of  glass 
covering  the  picture  on  the  headstone  was  so 
spotted  with  mildew  within,  that  no  amount  of 
polishing  on  the  outside  made  it  possible  for 
her  to  see  Willie's  face.  Now  if  she  could  get 
that  glass  off  and  clean  it  well?  The  thought 
of  holding  the  tintype  in  her  hand  after  all  these 
years  gave  her  a  strange  thrill.  It  was  like 
touching  the  mysteries  of  the  other  world !  She 
would  get  Silas  Goodrich  to  set  it  again,  for 
Silas  added  the  profession  of  glazier  to  that  of 
painter,  plumber,  and  horse-doctor  to  the  vil 
lage  of  Pennyville.  The  doing  this  for  Willie 
gave  Amanda  Gedge  a  curious  joy,  the  phan 
tom,  perhaps,  of  that  happiness  she  might  have 
known  had  she  been  his  wife  and  had  the  joy 
of  serving  him.  She  smoothed  the  grass  where, 
under  the  sheltering  dead  leaves,  it  had  whit- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      2ol 

ened  to  a  silky  smoothness,  and  she  hoped  the 
lily  root  would  grow.  Willie  had  loved  flow 
ers,  except  toward  the  end;  then,  one  Septem 
ber  day,  when  she  carried  him  a  bunch  of  glow 
ing  salvia,  he  had  turned  fretfully  away,  and 
told  her  not  to  bother. 

"Willie  was  so  sick,"  she  said  to  herself, 
remembering,  but  remembering  only  his  pain, 
not  his  slight.  She  always  said  good  -  by  to 
him  when  she  had  to  leave  him  here  alone  on 
the  hillside.  Amanda  knew  that  Willie  was 
in  heaven,  but  somehow  he  seemed  here,  too, 
under  the  leaning  piece  of  slate  and  the  bleached 
winter  grass. 

When  she  got  back  to  the  post-office,  a  little 
tired,  but  full  of  the  peace  of  the  calm,  sweet 
day,  her  mother  had  a  dozen  small  and  pleasant 
happenings  to  tell  her.  And  Amanda  listened 
to  everything  with  keen  interest  and  sympathy, 
and  then  confided  her  plan  about  the  glass,  to 
which  Mrs.  Gedge  cordially  assented,  although 
she  thought  to  herself  that  it  certainly  was 
strange  for  'Mandy  to  be  so  faithful  to  Willie, 
after  all  these  years.  She  did  not  believe,  feel 
ing  the  way  she  did,  that  'Mandy  would  ever 
marry ;  it  was  a  pity  for  a  girl  to  be  an  old 
maid!  Well,  she  liked  to  have  'Mandy  faithful 
to  her  beau.  "But,"  said  Mrs.  Gedge  to  her 
self,  "my!  what  would  she  have  done  if  she'd 


252      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

been  left  like  me,  if  she  takes  on  so,  and  Willie 
only  her  beau?" 

It  was  too  dark  to  knit,  but  she  saw  Amanda, 
who  was  sorting  the  mail,  put  aside  an  official 
letter,  and  she  was  eager  to  know  what  was  in  it. 
"Do  make  haste,  'Mandy,"  she  said.  "My,  I 
wonder  if  they  are  going  to  make  any  change 
in  the  stamps!  I  don't  want  to  find  fault,  but 
they  're  not  pretty  —  the  stamps." 

Amanda  looked  over  her  shoulder  to  caution 
her  mother  not  to  speak  so  loud,  —  the  Public 
must  not  overhear  an  official  criticism!  But 
she  took  time  to  give  her  mother  the  letter; 
for,  though  Mrs.  Gedge  could  not  read  it  in  the 
fading  light  by  the  window,  and  Amanda  had 
both  lamps  to  assist  her  in  sorting  the  mail,  she 
knew  that  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  mother 
even  to  hold  it  in  her  crippled  old  hands.  But 
when  her  public  duties  had  been  discharged, 
Amanda  made  haste  to  open  the  envelope. 

"I  can't  stop  to  talk,"  she  said,  with  her  offi 
cial  smile,  to  two  or  three  women  who  were 
waiting  to  gossip  in  the  twilight,  "because  I 
must  attend  to  some  Washington  business ; " 
and,  properly  impressed,  the  ladies  were  satis 
fied  to  talk  to  each  other. 

"Read  it,  child,  read  it,"  said  her  mother, 
sticking  her  knitting  -  needles  into  their  little 
ivory  sheaths. 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      253 

"'MADAM,  — It  is  deemed  for  the  best  inter 
ests  of  the  service  that  a  change  be  made  in  the 
post-office  at  Penny ville.  Your  resignation  will, 
therefore,  be  accepted,  to  take  effect  on  the  1st 
day  of  May. 

" 'Yours  truly, . '  " 

The  name  that  followed  Amanda  did  not 
know. 

"Why,  I  don't  understand,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Gedge.  "Why,  what  does  it  mean?" 

Amanda  stared  at  her  mother;  then  she  grew 
suddenly  faint,  and  sat  down. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  Mrs.  Gedge  re< 
peated. 

"Mother,  don't!  they'll  hear,"  Amanda  in 
terrupted  in  a  whispering  voice. 

Mrs.  Gedge  looked  up  at  her  in  a  sort  of  ter 
ror.  "'Mandy?" 

But,  without  a  word,  Amanda  wrapped  her 
shawl  tightly  about  the  little,  old,  shrinking 
figure,  and  with  a  swift  motion  opened  the  side 
door  into  the  shed. 

"I  'm  going  to  wheel  mother  into  the  house," 
she  called  out  to  the  women  who  were  standing 
by  the  counter. 

Her  voice  was  husky,  and  there  was  the  swift 
precision  of  agitation  in  her  manner,  which  they 
noticed  and  commented  on.  They  said  they 


254      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

supposed  that  Amanda  Gedge  was  getting  real 
worried  about  her  mother,  and  110  wonder, 
either.  They  waited  a  good  while,  hoping  that 
Amanda  would  come  back;  but  as  she  did  not, 
they  said  it  was  lucky  they  were  there,  for  Mrs. 
Dace  came  hurrying  in  to  buy  a  stamp,  and 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  giggling  and  chattering 
about  being  the  postmistress,  for,  rather  than 
bother  'Mandy,  they  went  behind  the  pigeon 
holes  themselves,  and,  in  the  most  obliging  way 
in  the  world,  opened  the  stamp-box  and  received 
Mrs.  Dace's  two  pennies  just  as  well  as  'Mandy 
herself  could  have  done.  And  then,  laughing 
and  making  fun,  as  they  expressed  it,  they  went 
off  into  the  twilight,  leaving  the  old  post-office 
in  dusky  quiet,  with  the  door  standing  hospi 
tably  open. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  Amanda  Gedge 
came  back.  She  closed  the  door,  turned  the 
lamps  down  low,  and  dropped  into  a  chair,  her 
head  resting  in  her  hands.  She  went  all  over 
the  last  three  hours ;  her  mother's  bewilderment 
and  terror;  the  shock  to  her  pride,  a  pride 
which  seemed,  Amanda  had  thought,  watching 
the  old  face  wither  and  whiten,  —  to  be  her 
life;  then  the  struggle  to  understand,  and  at 
last  the  rally  of  courage  with  which  Mrs.  Gedge 
cried  out  suddenly  that  she  knew  what  the 
letter  meant!  The  relief  of  her  own  insight 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      255 

was  for  a  moment  almost  too  great  for  words. 
"The  best  interests  of  the  service,"  she  said, 
with  a  gasp.  "For  our  interests,  'Mandy ;  don't 
you  see?  It  is  just  consideration.  They  think 
I  'm  too  old  for  such  hard  work.  That 's  it, 
I  know  it  is.  It  's  kindness.  But,  'Mandy, 
child,  you  go  right  over  to  the  post-office  and 
write  to  the  President;  you  tell  him  I  am  not 
too  old  to  work  for  him.  He  thinks  I  am, 
'Mandy,  —  you  can  see  that  from  the  letter,  — 
and  he  gives  me  the  chance  to  resign ;  but  you 
say  I  am  obliged,  but  it  isn't  necessary.  You 
see,  he  don't  understand;  he's  new  himself, 
you  know,  and  he  don't  understand;  he  thinks 
the  work  is  too  much  for  me.  Oh,  don't  let  him 
think  I  don't  appreciate  him,  but  tell  him  I 
could  not  think  of  it.  Why,  'Mandy,  you  tell 
him  I  could  not  desert  the  Government  after 
these  twenty  years !  And  explain  to  him  how 
much  you  are  able  to  do  now  you  are  older. 
You  know  you  were  so  young  when  I  got  the 
place,  and  they  have  forgotten  that  you  are 
older  now ;  I  suppose  nobody  thought  to  explain 
that  to  the  new  President."  She  looked  up  at 
her  daughter,  and  actually  laughed  with  relief. 
"My!  it  did  give  me  a  start!  But  you  see 
what  it  means?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Amanda  assured  her;  "why,   of 
course."     But   she   said   to   herself,    "I   don't 


256      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

know,  I  don't  know.  May  be  she  's  right. 
But  we  won't  resign,  anyhow.  We  won't  do 
it !  "  And  then  she  reassured  her  mother  again 
in  that  brief,  repressed  way  that  never  knew  the 
relief  of  a  caress,  "Never  you  mind,  mother; 
it's  all  right." 

But  Mrs.  Gedge's  confidence  had  not  come  at 
once ;  there  had  been  a  dreadful  hour  of  bewil 
derment  and  mortification  and  terror.  And  now 
Amanda,  sitting  alone  in  the  dark  post-office, 
put  the  explanation  aside  and  faced  the  facts. 

"They  will  'accept'  mother's  resignation. 
It's  Mr.  Hamilton  did  it.  Oh,  that  man! 
Well,  we  won't  resign;  that  's  all  there  is  to  it. 
We  won't  resign.  I  '11  write  and  tell  the  Presi- 

O 

dent  so,  and  very  likely  we  '11  never  hear  any 
thing  more  about  it.  But,  'tenner  rate,  we 
won't  resign."  She  would  never  forgive  Mr. 
Hamilton,  sho  was  sure  of  that.  The  blow  to 
her  mother, — Amanda's  shoulders  shook  with 
sobs,  as  she  sat  there,  her  head  on  her  knees, 
swaying  to  and  fro  with  misery  —  the  shock  to 
Mrs.  Gedge  was  too  great  to  be  forgiven.  "Oh, 
if  I  only  hadn't  lost  his  letter!"  she  said,  again 
and  again.  "It's  my  fault;  it's  all  my  fault, 
not  mother's.  I  '11  tell  the  President  that." 

But  she  must  not  waste  her  time ;  she  must 
explain  that  her  mother  was  much  obliged,  but 
did  not  care  to  avail  herself  of  the  consideration 
and  kindness  of  the  Government. 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      257 

This  for  Mrs.  Gedge  to  read;  then  on  a  sheet 
of  thin  pink  paper,  with  a  print  of  a  rose  in 
the  upper  left  hand  corner,  came  her  own  self- 
accusation  ;  she  wrote  with  a  tumultuous  haste, 
unlike  her  usual  labored  correspondence  with 
the  department.  The  words  were  burning  in 
the  elderly  woman's  heart.  "Oh,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "even  if  they  did  mean  it  kindly,  as 
she  says,  it  may  kill  mother." 

She  sobbed  as  she  wrote;  but  when  the  letter 
had  been  sent,  and  a  few  days  had  passed  wilhout 
any  further  communication  from  Washington, 
Amanda  was  calmer  than  she  had  thought  she 
could  be  while  this  cruel  uncertainty  was  hang 
ing  over  her.  Mrs.  Gedge  began  to  gather  an 
immense  amount  of  comfort  and  pride  from  this 
expression  of  the  consideration  of  the  Govern 
ment.  She  told  Amanda  that  she  really  wished 
the  Public  knew  of  it.  She  didn't  want  to  be 
proud,  she  said,  but  it  was  gratifying,  and  she 
almost  wished  Sally  Goodrich  knew  it.  Aman 
da's  feeling  was  so  decidedly  against  this  confi 
dence  that  Mrs.  Gedge  reluctantly  gave  it  up. 
"Yes,  you're  right,"  she  said;  "we're  not 
like  ordinary  people;  we  can't  tell  our  affairs." 
And  Amanda  was  quick  to  say  that  was  just 
how  she  felt.  But  her  mother's  innocent  im 
portance  cut  her  to  the  heart,  and  gave  her, 
too,  a  sort  of  terror  of  the  weakness  of  which 


258      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

she  felt  it  to  be  a  sign.  Although  no  answer 
had  come  from  Washington,  and  the  refusal  to 
resign  had  apparently  been  accepted  without  a 
protest,  Amanda  Gedge  found  herself  counting 
the  days  until  the  1st  of  May.  She  did  not 
know  why.  She  only  felt  that  something  was 
going  to  happen  then.  But  those  soft  spring 
days  brightened  Mrs.  Gedge  wonderfully,  —  the 
days  and  the  quiet  of  her  mind,  for,  not  hearing 
from  the  President,  the  shock  of  the  letter  she 
had  at  first  so  grievously  misunderstood  faded 
from  her  memory.  Such  forge tf ulness  only  made 
Amanda's  heart  sink. 

The  second  week  in  April  Mrs.  Gedge  said 
that,  although  she  felt  better,  she  believed  she 
would  not  go  over  to  the  post-office  for  a  few 
days;  the  being  wheeled  over  made  her  bones 
ache,  and  she  'd  just  as  lief  stay  in  the  kitchen, 
she  said.  But  of  course  she  kept  an  eye  on  the 
post-office,  and  saw  the  stage  come  rumbling 
up  at  noon,  and  watched  the  off  horse  paw 
ing  restlessly,  while  Oily  handed  the  mail-bag 
to  Amanda.  There  was  a  man  on  the  box- 
seat  at  Olly's  side  who  roused  her  curiosity  a 
good  deal;  and  when  her  daughter  came  in  to 
get  dinner,  she  asked  her  if  she  had  noticed 
him. 

"lie  was  real  pleasant-looking,"  she  said,  as 
Amanda  pushed  her  chair  up  to  the  table;  "real 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      259 

pleasant,  but  big;  though  he  ain't  to  blame  for 
that.  Who  do  you  think  he  can  be?  lie  had 
a  little  dog  sitting  up  beside  him,  like  a  little 
deacon!  I  like  to  see  a  man  friendly  with  a 
dog.  He  is  n't  the  sewing-machine  man;  may 
be  he  's  a  dentist?" 

"Or  a  book  agent,"  suggested  Amanda.  "I 
like  book  agents,  they  have  so  much  conversa 
tion.  Sometimes  I  think,  really,  if  I  'd  the 
money,  I  'd  buy  one  of  their  books,  they  do 
talk  so  nice  about  them." 

"He  looked  real  hard  at  the  shed  door,"  Mrs. 
Gedge  commented.  "I  guess  he  never  saw  a 
shed  door  painted  just  so.  I  don't  know  but 
what  we  'd  better  change  it,  'Mandy?" 

"I  guess  he  thought  it  was  nice,  mother," 
objected  the  other,  gently. 

"Well,  anyway,  when  Mr.  Thyme  comes 
down  for  the  mail,  child,  you  be  sure  and  ask 
who  he  is.  It  's  far  too  early  for  a  summer 
boarder." 

It  was  delightful  to  have  a  new  and  interest 
ing  topic  of  conversation.  William  Sprague, 
"cleaning  himself  "  before  a  small  mirror  in  the 
office  at  the  tavern,  had  no  idea  how  much  plea 
sure  his  advent  had  given.  William's  coming 
to  Pennyville  thus  early,  was  simply  because 
his  important  happiness  demanded  some  kind 
of  action.  The  day  that  Mrs.  Gedge  had  been 


2GO      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

notified  that  her  resignation  would  be  accepted, 
a  communication  had  come  to  William  Sprague, 
showing  the  reverse  side  of  that  letter  which, 
as  Mrs.  Gedge  expressed  it,  "she  had  misun 
derstood."  lie  read  it  for  sheer  pleasure  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  and  each  day  the  1st  of  May 
seemed  farther  off!  Ho  packed  his  trunk  at 
once,  and  when  he  had  had  a  week  of  incon 
venience  in  unpacking  and  repacking  whenever 
he  wanted  anything,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the 
best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  take  Jimmy 
and  go  to  Pennyville  at  once,  and,  while  wait 
ing  for  the  desired  date,  become  acquainted 
with  his  constituents,  so  to  speak. 

"It 's  two  weeks  before  I  go  into  office,"  he 
told  his  friends,  "but  I  '11  be  learning  the  ways 
of  the  place  and  the  people,  so  as  to  get  a  good 
grip  on  the  work." 

He  was  as  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  of  plans  for 
reform  in  what  he  knew  nothing  about,  as  was 
Mr.  Hamilton  himself.  He  took  it  for  granted, 
after  the  manner  of  all  new  brooms,  that  every 
thing  in  Pennyville  was  in  the  most  shocking 
condition  of  neglect  and  dilapidation.  Yes,  the 
sooner  he  got  there  and  looked  about  him,  and 
investigated  the  poor,  feeble,  inefficient  work 
ings  of  the  post-office,  the  better.  And  so, 
with  only  the  delay  of  carting  his  trunk  to  the 
station,  William  Sprague  hurried  off  to  his  new 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      261 

life.  He  was  glad  when  the  journey  in  the  cars 
was  over,  and,  whistling  to  Jimmy  to  follow 
him,  he  could  clamber  up  on  the  stage,  and  take 
the  box  -  seat  with  Oily  Clough,  and  then  go 
swinging  and  creaking  along  the  hilly  roads 
toward  Penny ville. 

William  Sprague  did  not  tell  Oily  who  he 
was;  he  preferred  the  sensation  of  coming  into 
his  kingdom  in  disguise.  He  was  very  gra 
cious,  though ;  he  complimented  the  country  that 
stretched  before  him,  in  terms  which  intimated 
a  friendly  desire  to  overlook  any  mistakes  on 
the  part  of  the  Creator;  he  thought  the  houses 
looked  comfortable,  he  said,  and  the  barns  quite 
a  size ;  he  admitted  that  it  had  apparently  rained 
.  considerable,  but  he  felt  that  it  did  good,  after 
all,  a  big  spring  rain ;  it  did  good,  and  he  would 
not  find  fault.  By  and  by  he  approached  the 
subject  of  Penny  ville. 

"Pretty  place?" 

Oily  looked  vacant,  and  said  he  did  not 
know.  "I  ain't  thought  about  its  being  purty," 
said  Oily. 

"Large  population?"  Mr.  Sprague  inquired. 

"Well,  sizable,"  Oily  answered. 

William  Sprague  cleared  his  throat  and 
seemed  much  interested  in  the  off  leader. 
"Good  mare  that?  Yes?  Ha  — hum— the 
post-office,  now"  —this  with  striking  indiffer 
ence  —  "quite  a  job  to  run  it?  " 


262      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Oily  stuck  out  his  lips  to  hide  a  satisfied 
smile.  "Yes,  she's  fair  —  she's  fair.  You 
don't  see  none  better  'an  her  in  the  city." 

William  answered  briefly,  but  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  woo  Oily  from  the  subject 
of  the  mare,  and  when  he  again  asked  his  ques 
tion  about  the  post-office,  the  stage-driver  was 
plainly  not  interested. 

"Well,  I  never  heard  'Mandy  complain,"  he 
said. 

'"Mandy?" 

''Mandy  and  her  mother  keep  it;  been  there 
since  the  war." 

"Well!'      said    William,     much    interested. 
"What  are  they  goin'  to  do?" 
" Huh  ?  "  Oily  inquired.      "  Do  ?  " 
"Why,"  said  William,   with  some  modesty, 
"when    the    change    is    made.     You  know  the 
other  party  is  in  now;  they're  puttin'  in  their 
men." 

Olly's  low  chuckle  came  as  though  jolted  out 
of  him.  "Well,  I  guess  they  won't  put  any 
body  in  our  post-office  over  'Mandy  and  her 
mother."  He  paused  to  point  out  silently  the 
green  expanse  of  the  valley  below  them.  Oily 
thought  it  was  good  farming  land  himself,  but 
the  summer  visitors  always  made  a  fuss  about 
it,  and  so  he  had  learned  to  point  it  out  to  any 
passenger  on  the  box-seat. 


A  FOUETH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      263 

"Pretty  good,  pretty  good,"  said  William, 
with  absent  graciousness,  watching  a  cloud 
shadow  chase  across  a  meadow  and  up  the  slop 
ing  fields  to  the  woods;  "yes,  I  must  say  that 's 
pretty  fair  for  these  parts." 

They  rumbled  along  for  nearly  a  mile  without 
a  word,  William  Sprague  feeling  vaguely  de 
pressed  and  uncomfortable,  when  Oily  broke 
out:  — 

"Why,  look  a'  here.  They  ain't  got  a  cent, 
'Mandy  and  her  mother;  ef  they  weren't  in 
the  office,  they  'd  be  on  the  town.  Talk  about 
puttin'  people  in  over  'Mandy  and  the  old 
lady!  I  guess  they  'd  wish  they  wasn't  put  in. 
I  guess  they  'd  be  considerable  put  out!  "  Oily 
laughed  at  this  joke  several  times  during  the 
next  hour.  "Put  in,  put  out,"  he  repeated, 
and  chuckled. 

But  William  Sprague  frowned  in  a  troubled 
way.  "There!"  said  he  to  himself,  "I  am 
sorry  for  the  women,  but  it  ain't  for  me  to  say 
anything.  I  '11  do  my  duty,  that 's  all  I  'm  here 
for.  The  women  ain't  my  business.  But  it 's 
queer  they  haven't  told  this  young  man  about 
the  change.  I  should  think  they  'd  tell  him, 
sure;  seeing  he  carries  the  mail." 

He  had  no  inclination  now  to  disclose  his 
identity  to  Oily,  whose  ignorance  puzzled  him, 
and  even  irritated  him  a  little,  too.  But  he  was 


264      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

quite  good-natured  again  and  full  of  interest 
and  excitement  by  the  time  they  turned  into 
Main  Street  and  drew  up  at  the  post-office.  He 
looked  about  curiously  while  Oily  handed  in  the 
mail,  and  said  in  a  loud  whisper  that  that  red, 
white,  and  blue  door  showed  a  good  spirit.  He 
would  not  call  until  he  had  gone  to  the  tavern 
and  cleaned  up,  he  said  to  himself.  That  done, 
and  a  comfortable  dinner  disposed  of,  he  put  on 
his  broad  brimmed  felt  hat  and  went  with  some 
thing  of  a  roll  and  a  limp,  and  with  Jimmy  close 
at  his  heels,  down  to  the  office. 

It  was  three  o'clock,  and  Main  Street  was 
quite  deserted;  the  door  of  the  post-office  was 
partly  open,  and  a  puff  of  wind  showed  its  offi 
cial  interior.  It  showed  him  also  a  tall,  angular 
woman  standing  behind  the  counter;  her  back 
was  toward  him,  for  she  was  trying  to  lit;  one 
of  the  pasteboard  boxes  into  its  niche  without 
wrenching  its  feeble  joints.  At  his  step  she 
turned  with  rather  a  pleased  look.  ("He 
hasn't  a  bag,  only  a  dog,"  Amanda  said  to 
herself;  "what  can  he  be?  ") 

"Good -afternoon,"  said  William  Sprague, 
taking  off  his  hat,  and  then  putting  it  carefully 
on  his  head  again.  "How  do  you  do,  ma'am?  " 

"Good- afternoon,"  returned  Amanda,  po 
litely.  "Fine  day,  sir." 

"Well,  yes,  it  is,  it  is,"  William  conceded, 
pleasantly. 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      265 

"Are  you  stopping  in  town,  sir?"  inquired 
the  postmistress.  She  was  not  surprised  that 
he  had  called  at  the  office;  what  more  impor 
tant  or  pleasant  place  was  there  ?  Amanda  was 
always  gracious,  if  a  little  formal,  to  people 
who  came  to  pay  their  respects.  She  patted 
Jimmy's  head  as  he  stood  on  his  hind  legs 
and  sniffed  at  the  counter.  The  little  dog's 
patient  brown  eyes  were  not  unlike  Amanda's 
own. 

"Well,"  said  William,  blankly,  "I  am;  yes, 
I  — I"  — 

"On  business,  I  presume;  what  is  your  line?" 
said  Amanda,  wishing  to  be  agreeable.  "Are 
you  in  the  dentistry  business?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  the  new  postmaster,  frown 
ing  very  much  with  bewilderment;  "no,  I  can't 
say  I  am.  Not  dentistry,  exactly;  no.  I  came 
down  to  call,  ma'am,  on  you.  You  are  Mrs. 
Gedge,  I  presume.  I  understand  you  run  this 
office." 

Amanda  Gedge  felt  a  sudden  contraction 
about  her  heart.  "The  post-office  belongs  to 
mother,"  she  said,  faintly.  The  numb  and  hid 
den  terror  of  the  past  weeks  confronted  her 
and  clamored  for  a  hearing. 

o 

"Yes,  just  so;  so  I  understood,"  said  Wil 
liam  Sprague.  "Well,  perhaps  you  weren't 
looking  for  me  before  the  1st,  but  I  thought  I  'd 


266      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

come;  I  thought  I  'd  get  to  know  the  place, 
ma'am." 

William  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  fore 
head.  He  wished  he  had  a  bit  of  stick  and  his 
knife,  then  he  would  not  have  to  look  at  her,  he 
thought;  the  slow  whitening  of  her  face;  the 
movement  of  her  dry  lips  as  she  tried  to  speak 
and  could  not;  her  hands  clutching  the  edge  of 
the  counter  until  the  knuckles  were  white,  and 
her  changed  voice,  were  terrible.  It  was  like 
seeing  some  poor,  dumb  creature  tortured. 

"What  — what?  I  don't  know  —  I  don't 
know  —  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"Well,  I've  been  put  in  here,  you  know," 
"William  said,  bending  down  to  pull  Jimmy's 
ears,  so  that  he  need  not  see  her  face;  "and 
I  came  along  now  to  Pennyville  because  I 
thought,  perhaps,  you  'd  —  I  've  no  experience, 
and  I  thought  "  lie  began  to  stammer  with 

pity;  her  rigid  face  and  wide,  terror-stricken 
brown  eyes  confused  him.  "I  hope  you  are 
well,  and  your  ma,  too,"  he  ended,  weakly. 

"You  will  kill  mother,"  said  Amanda. 

"Ma'am?" 

"You  will  kill  her  if  you  turn  her  out  of  her 
post-office." 

William  Sprague  shuffled  his  feet  noisily  on 
the  floor ;  then  he  took  off  his  hat  and  seemed 
to  scan  it  critically.  "I  ain't  responsible,  Miss 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      267 

Gedge;  I  was  sent  here.  The  department  de 
cided  to  make  a  change,  I  suppose,  and  I  was 
sent  here." 

"You  must  go  away,"  Amanda  said;  her 
voice  broke,  and  she  could  not  say  anything 
more. 

William's  eyes  glistened.  "  "This  is  the  cus- 
sedest  business  I  was  ever  in,"  he  said,  under 
his  breath.  "Poor  girl  !  Poor  thing!"  He 
felt  something  roll  down  his  cheek,  and  that 
helped  him  to  be  angry.  "Well,"  he  said, 
sternly;  "this  ain't  your  affair,  nor  mine. 
I  'm  sent.  I  can't  help  it.  I  'm  to  be  in  on 
the  first  day  of  May.  I  '11  go  away  till  then. 
I  'd  just  as  lief  as  not  clear  out  till  the  first  of 
the  month,  if  it  will  oblige  you  any;  honest,  I 
would." 

"Don't  you  understand  ?  "  Amanda  explained, 
her  voice  monotonous  with  pain.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  come  back  —  ever.  Mother 's 
been  here  twenty  years.  If  she  was  put  out, 
she  would  die.  She  would  be  on  the  town ;  but 
the  worst  thing  to  her,  the  thing  that  would  kill 
mother,  would  be  to  be  put  out.  Oh,  go  away! 
You  can  come  back  when  she  dies  —  yes,  you 
can  come  back  then.  Oh,  go  —  go  I  "  Amanda 
stopped ;  she  dropped  her  head  upon  the  coun 
ter  and  sobbed  aloud. 

William  wiped  his  brow  and  sighed. 


268      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Amanda  lifted  her  large  face,  working  with 
tears.  "Mother  5s  been  here  twenty  years,"  she 
repeated,  —  "twenty  years." 

William  Sprague  stamped  across  the  post- 
office  and  back.  "Well,  ma'am,  I'm  sorry. 
I  don't  mind  saying  I  'm  sorry.  I  —  I  —  I  'm 
damned  sorry!  But  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do 
about  it.  If  I  was  n't  here,  somebody  else 
would  be.  And  —  well,  I  'm  put  here,  and  it 's 
my  duty  to  stay  where  I  'm  put." 

"Mother's  done  her  duty,"  said  Amanda, 
feebly. 

"I  ain't  a-questionin'  that,  of  course,"  Wil 
liam  assured  her  quickly.  "She's  all  right, 
of  course.  But  the  party  has  changed,  you 
know.  The  Democrats  are  in.  Now  you  and 
your  mother  ain't  Democrats,  so  —  out  you 
go!" 

"What!"  cried  Amanda,  looking  at  him 
with  sudden  hope,  "not  Democrats?  Why,  if 
that's  the  reason,  we'll  be  Democrats!  I'll 
write  and  tell  the  President  so.  Why,  we  'd 
just  as  lief  be  Democrats,  sir.  Won't  you  tell 
the  President  so?" 

"My  Lord!  "  said  William  Sprague. 

"I  '11  write  to  the  President.  Oh,  if  that 's 
all,  it  will  be  all  right.  If  they  had  only  told 
us  that,  we  'd  have  changed  in  November." 

"Well,   ma'am,"    interposed   William,  wea- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      269 

rily,  "I  guess  I  '11  go  up  to  the  hotel  and  rest  a 
bit,  and  may  be  we  can  talk  it  over  later  in  the 
evening.  I  '11  come  in  and  set  awhile,  and 
we'll  talk  it  over,  and  you'll  see."  William 
was  actually  fatigued  with  the  hopelessness  of 
the  situation. 

"No;  mother  would  wonder,"  Amanda  an 
swered.  "I  — I  will  be  out,  walking  down  by 
the  bridge,  and  if  you  '11  be  there,  I  '11  explain ; 
I  '11  tell  you  why  we  can't  leave,  and  you  '11 
understand." 


VI. 

That  meeting  at  the  bridge  was  productive 
of  nothing  but  the  need  of  another  talk,  and 
after  it  William  reflected  that  he  must  not 
leave  Pennyville  until  Amanda  was  reconciled 
to  his  return  on  the  1st  of  May,  so  he  settled 
down  comfortably  at  the  tavern.  Of  course  by 
this  time  Mrs.  Gedge  was  the  only  person  in 
the  village  who  did  not  understand  the  situa 
tion;  but  everybody  united  to  conceal  it  from 
her. 

Mr.  Sprague  was  so  sympathetic  in  spite  of 
his  quiet  determination  to  "have  the  place" 
that  he  was  not  greatly  disliked,  as  might  have 
been  supposed.  He  was  the  unwilling  tool  of 
circumstances;  he  could  not  —  that  was  very 


270      A  FOUETH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

clear  —  he  could  not  help  himself;  "for,"  as 
he  explained  a  dozen  times  a  day,  —  "for,  if 
I  didn't  come,  somebody  else  would,  and  it 
would  be  just  as  bad  on  'Mandy."  William 
had  adopted  the  customs  of  the  village  at  once, 
and  called  everybody  by  their  first  names. 

A  week  of  protest  and  insistence  slipped  by; 
to  Amanda  it  was  only  a  long  daze  of  terror; 
to  the  new  postmaster  it  was  pitiful  but  inter 
esting.  He  was  as  kind  as  possible  to  Aman 
da;  he  bought  a  very  hideous  little  blue  glass 
dish,  in  the  shape  of  a  shell,  and  presented  it 
to  her;  he  even  fetched  her  a  bunch  of  wild 
flowers,.  —  London-pride  and  dog-tooth  violets 
and  Quaker-ladies.  Amanda  took  them  list 
lessly.  She  explained  to  her  mother  that  the 
gentleman  who  was  stopping  up  at  the  tavern 
-  "  that  big  red  man  you  saw  on  the  stage,  who 
comes  to  the  office  'most  every  day  with  his 
dog  "  —  he  had  given  her  the  presents,  she  said. 

Mrs.  Gedge  revived  with  this  new  interest, 
like  some  poor,,  faded  flower  that  looks  up  for  a 
moment  in  the  rain.  "Why,  child,"  she  said, 
her  black  eyes  fairly  snapping  with  pleasure, 
"you  've  got  a  beau  !  I  think  you  might  ask 
him  into  the  parlor  some  time,  'Mandy,  ta  see 
me." 

William  Sprague  made  this  same  suggestion. 
"I'd  like  to  see  your  ma,  'Mandy;  course  I 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      271 

won't  say  a  word  to  her,  but  I  'd  just  like  to 
see  how  the  land  lays." 

And  so  Amanda  had  no  choice  but  to  arrange 
a  meeting.  "Will  you  come  in  this  after 
noon?"  she  said;  and  Mr.  Sprague  assented  at 
once. 

Mrs.  Gedge,  when  she  heard  that  he  was 
coming,  was  filled  with  excited  hospitality,  and 
made  her  daughter  wheel  her  immediately  into 
the  parlor.  "He'll  be  here  in  two  or  three 
hours,  child,"  she  said,  "so  you  just  get  to  work 
and  dust  up.  Open  the  shutters  first.  Now, 
come,  be  spry!  Dear!  if  I  had  my  legs!" 
Almost  with  irritation  she  watched  Amanda, 
moving  slowly  about  with  the  duster  in  heavy 
silence.  Amanda  was  not  excited.  "It's  like 
a  girl,"  Mrs.  Gedge  thought.  "They  take 
their  beaux  for  granted,  and  won't  make  a 
speck  of  effort  for  'em !  But  'Mandy  ain't  as 
young  as  she  was;  she  ought  to  take  pains." 
When  the  shutters  were  opened,  she  felt  a  pang 
as  she  saw  a  strip  of  sunshine  stretching  across 
the  red  and  blue  roses  of  the  carpet.  "It  will 
fade  it,"  she  thought;  "but  there!  if  'Mandy 
takes  him,  I  guess  he  can  buy  her  a  new  carpet 
one  of  these  days." 

The  dreary  order  of  the  room  was  really  per 
fect;  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  except  to 
wait  impatiently  for  the  arrival  of  the  caller. 


272      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

An  hour  before  he  was  expected,  Mrs.  Gedge 
put  on  her  best  cap;  it  was  almost  new,  for 
she  had  not  worn  it  a  half-dozen  times  since 
Amanda  made  it  four  years  ago ;  then  she  shook 
out  the  folds  of  a  clean  handkerchief,  and  drew 
Amanda's  blue  plaid  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 
Then  a  happy  thought  struck  her.  "  'Mandy, 
I  believe  that  those  black  mitts  of  mine  are  in 
that  old  cigar-box,  in  the  right-hand  corner, 
back,  of  my  top  bureau  drawer.  Do  look, 
'Mandy.  There,  child,  hurry!  My,  you  ain't 
fast,  are  you?  " 

Amanda  found  the  little  black  silk  mitts, 
and  then  wheeled  her  mother's  chair  upon  the 
braided  mat  before  the  empty  fireplace,  just  as 
William  Sprague  lifted  the  knocker  on  the 
front  door.  It  was  so  long  since  that  door  had 
been  opened  that  the  key  would  not  turn  in  the 
lock,  and  Amanda,  in  an  embarrassed  voice, 
was  obliged  to  call  out  to  Mr.  Sprague,  "Will 
you  please  go  round  to  the  kitchen  door,  and 
come  in  that  way?  "  This  was  mortifying;  but 
the  occasion  was  too  great  and  too  agreeable  for 
mortifications  to  be  long  remembered;  and  Mr. 
Sprague  certainly  did  not  seem  put  out  by  it, 
Mrs.  Gedge  said  afterwards. 

He  found  the  little  crippled  old  woman  sit 
ting  up  very  straight  in  her  chair,  with  her  mitts 
crossed  carefully  in  front  of  her,  and  the  ruffle 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      273 

of  her  cap  fairly  quivering  with  pleasure.  The 
sunshine  had  crept  round  to  the  west  window, 
so  that  the  lilac  bushes  kept  most  of  it  from  the 
carpet,  and,  free  from  that  anxiety,  Mrs.  Gedge 
could  give  herself  up  to  the  opportunity  of  the 
moment. 

"Praise  to  the  face  is  open  disgrace,"  she 
said,  smiling  and  nodding,  in  answer  to  Mr. 
Sprague's  remark  that  Miss  'Mandy  seemed 
real  smart,  housekeeping  and  running  a  post- 
office,  too,  —  "  Praise  to  the  face  is  open  dis 
grace,  but  I  must  say  the  child  is  capable. 
She  's  a  real  smart  girl,  sir." 

Amanda  stood  with  a  stony  face  behind  her 
mother's  chair.  As  William  said  "post-office" 
she  looked  up,  and  her  tired  eyes  besought  him 
with  a  quick  terror ;  he  nodded,  reassuringly. 

"I  should  think,  now,  Mrs.  Gedge,"  he  be 
gan,  "you  and  Miss  'Mandy  would  be  about 
tired  of  the  office,  you've  been  there  so  long; 
honest,  I  would." 

Mrs.  Gedge  was  hospitable  and  condescend 
ing,  but  she  could  not  allow  any  such  talk  as 
that;  she  smiled  primly,  and  her  voice  was  less 
friendly.  "No,  sir,"  she  said;  "in  our  posi 
tion  we  cannot  think  of  ourselves.  We  are 
glad,  'Mandy  and  me,  to  be  in  the  service,  and 
I  'm  sure  we  could  n't  be  so  unworthy  as  to 
think  of  being  tired.  Besides  that,"  she  ended, 


274      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

trying  to  be  less  severe,  "  'Mandy  really  takes 
a  good  deal  off  me.  'Mandy  's  real  capable." 

"But  you  've  been  here  a  good  while,"  Wil 
liam  insisted,  anxiously;  he  was  not  making 
his  point  as  he  had  hoped  to ;  he  looked  about 
the  room  in  a  shifting,  embarrassed  way;  he 
wished  he  had  not  come. 

"Yes;  'Mandy  was  only  twenty-five,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Gedge,  cheerfully;  "'t  was  a  good 
bit  ago,  but  'Mandy  has  kept  her  looks. 
There,  child,  you  needn't  poke  my  shoulder. 
I  guess  your  mother  can  say  that.  You  've 
been  a  real  good  girl,  'Mandy,  too.  Well, 
now,  sir,  how  do  you  like  Penny  ville?  " 

William  found  this  much  more  comfortable 
ground,  even  though  Mrs.  Gedge,  in  the  most 
delicate  way  in  the  world,  said  that  she  under 
stood  he  was  a  widower,  and  of  course  it  was 
lonely  for  him  in  a  strange  place  like  Penny - 
ville,  and  she  hoped  he  'd  come  often  to  see  her 
and  'Mandy. 

"You'll  always  be  real  welcome,  sir,"  she 
assured  him.  "In  our  position  we  have  n't 
much  time,  we  are  so  occupied;  but  I'm  sure 
we  '11  be  glad  to  do  anything  we  can  for  you," 
she  ended,  with  friendly  patronage.  "Won't 
we,  'Mandy?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Amanda,  faintly. 

Mrs.  Gedge  made  a  little  impatient  cluck  be- 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      275 

tween  her  teeth;  it  was  real  silly  for  Amanda 
to  be  so  shy,  she  thought.  She  enjoyed  this 
visit  very  much,  but  she  was  tired  when  at 
last  her  guest  said  good-by.  As  for  William 
Sprague,  he  went  away  with  a  very  sober  face. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  now  until  the  change 
must  be  made.  Amanda  had  altered  so  that 
Mrs.  Gedge  would  have  been  alarmed  but  for 
this  delightful  interest  of  the  beau.  Not  that 

O 

she  named  Mr.  Sprague  thus  to  Amanda;  she 
asked  every  conceivable  question  about  him, 
but  she  nursed  her  little  hope  in  silence,  with 
small  chuckles  when  she  was  alone,  and  with 
knowing  looks  and  nods  when  the  neighbors 
came  in  to  gossip.  She  was  too  interested  and 
pleased  with  this  very  personal  happiness  to 
notice  any  constraint  in  the  talk  of  Sally  Good 
rich,  or  Mrs.  Dace,  or  any  one  else;  but  there 
was  constraint.  All  the  village  joined  Amanda 
in  shielding  Mrs.  Gedge  as  long  as  possible 
from  the  dreadful  knowledge  that  threatened 
her. 

The  1st  of  May  \^as  on  Monday.  On  Thurs 
day  Amanda,  her  face  set  in  haggard  silence, 
went  up  to  the  graveyard.  She  had  decided  to 
tell  her  mother  the  next  morning.  There  was 
nothing  to  hope  for  now;  her  frantic  appeal 
to  the  department  had  only  been  answered  by 
a  brief  assurance  of  her  mother's  inefficiency. 


276      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

Once,  before  that  assurance  came,  she  lay  awake 
all  night  to  plan  a  visit  to  Washington.  She 
could  take  some  of  Mrs.  Gedge's  one  hundred 
dollars  out  of  the  bank  and  go.  She  would 
make  some  excuse  to  her  mother,  so  that  she 
might  not  guess  the  humiliating  truth.  Yes, 
she  would  see  the  President;  she  would  tell 
him.  But  the  very  next  day  came  that  brief, 
decided  answer  from  Washington  that  left  her 
nothing  to  hope  for  from  the  Government. 

William  Sprague,  stolidly,  but  with  the  kind 
est  pity  in  his  twinkling,  anxious  eyes,  assured 
her  that  there  was  nothing  to  hope  for  from 
any  other  quarter.  She  felt  no  resentment 
towards  William;  she  believed  him  implicitly 
when  he  told  her  it  was  not  his  fault.  No,  he 
could  not  help  it ;  he  had  been  sent. 

She  would  go  and  sit  by  Willie  awhile,  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  toiled  wearily  up  the  hill, 
and  plan  what  she  should  do  when  the  -check 
from  Washington  ceased  to  come.  There  was 
a  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank  at  Mercer,  from 
which  Mrs.  Gedge  received  four  dollars  and 
fifty  cents  a  year;  that  was  all.  They  owned 
their  house,  but  it  was  of  no  value  save  as  a 
shelter.  No  one  would  buy  or  rent  it.  Every 
body  had  a  house  of  his  own,  —  everybody 
except  Mr.  Sprague,  and  he  had  at  once  an 
nounced  his  determination  to  live  in  the  tavern, 


A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      277 

that  being  cheaper  and  more  comfortable  than 
housekeeping  for  a  single  man.  Amanda  could 
sew,  but  who  would  give  her  work?  All  the 
women  in  Pennyville  did  their  own  sewing,  and 
Mrs.  Dace  helped  them  with  the  rare  occurrence 
of  a  new  dress.  She  could  go  up  to  the  tavern 
and  help  Mrs.  Thyme  in  the  summer;  but  at 
two  dollars  a  week  for  twelve  weeks  —  at  the 
very  most,  Mr.  Thyme's  summer  boarders  did 
not  stay  longer  than  twelve  weeks  —  she  could 
only  earn  twenty -four  dollars. 

Amanda  thought  this  all  out,  sitting  there 
by  Willie,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  and  her  eyes  staring  blankly  at  a 
dead  mullein-stalk  swaying  in  the  wind.  If  she 
went  away  to  work,  went  to  town,  she  might 
keep  her  mother  from  the  almshouse ;  yes,  that 
was  what  she  must  do.  She  must  take  her  to 
Mercer;  take  her  away  from  friends  and  neigh 
bors;  away  from  the  old  home.  "Oh,  I  wish 
mother  might  die  before  she  knew  it,"  this  old 
daughter  said  from  her  aching  heart.  Yes, 
by  taking  her  to  town,  she  might  keep  her  from 
the  poorhouse;  but  oh,  there  was  no  way  to 
save  the  heart-break,  the  pride  that  must  be 
trampled  down,  the  violence  of  leaving  the  home 
to  which  Adam  Gedge  had  brought  his  bride, 
and  in  which  Amanda  had  been  born  and  little 
Charles  had  died,  —  the  misery  of  transplanted 


278      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

age !  Amanda  had  no  more  tears,  but  she  drew 
in  her  breath  in  a  sort  of  moan.  She  found 
herself  wondering  at  those  days  of  anxiety 
about  the  album.  How  could  she  have  been 
worried  over  so  little  a  thing?  Ah,  how 
gladly  would  she  exchange  this  new  despair 
for  the  old  pain!  Amanda  sat  upright  and 
wrung  her  hands. 

"'Mandy!  "  some  one  shouted  from  the  road. 
It  was  William  Sprague;  he  was  slipping  the 
leather  loop  from  over  the  gate-post,  and  push 
ing  the  old,  sagging  gate  back  across  the  grass. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  'Mandy,"  he  said,  in 
his  loud,  cheerful  voice.  "Your  mother  said 
she  believed  you  was  up  here.  If  you  don't 
mind,  I  '11  talk  to  you  a  bit."  He  had  reached 
her  by  this  time,  and  stood  watching  her  with 
friendly  concern.  Jimmy  came  and  sniffed  her 
hand,  and  then  licked  it  with  his  little  roujrh 

O 

tongue.  Amanda  did  not  notice  him,  and 
William  shook  his  head.  "Why,"  he  thought, 
much  impressed,  "she  don't  see  Jimmy!  'Man 
dy,"  he  said,  "I  've  thought  of  something. 
It  is  n't  perhaps  just  the  thing  you  'd  like, 
but  it  's  the  only  thing  I  can  think  of.  And 
I  'm  willing.  Well,  I  —  I  'd  really  like  it, 
'Mandy." 

Amanda  looked  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  and 
with  dilated  eyes. 


A  FOUBTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT.      279 

"If  we  was  to  get  married?"  said  William, 
and  paused. 

Amanda  Gedge  did  not  seem  to  understand 
him;  she  made  no  answer. 

"You  see,  it  's  like  this:  Your  ma  'd  be 
pleased,  and  she  'd  never  know  anything.  I  'd 
have  a  home,  and  I  'd  be  comfortable.  And  I 
don't  mind  being  married  at  all;  honest,  I'd 
just  as  lief.  And  I  like  you,  'Mandy.  It 's 
only  fair  to  say  that.  I  told  your  ma  I  liked 
you,  and  I  was  coming  up  here  to  tell  you  so. 
So  let  's  get  married." 

"You  told  mother?  "  said  Amanda,  in  a  whis 
per.  Her  heart  beat  so  that  it  seemed  as 
though  she  could  not  breathe. 

"You  haven't  thought  that  way  about  me,  I 
know,"  he  said,  apologetically;  "but  look  at  it, 
'Mandy;  it  will  make  it  all  right  for  the  old 
lady,  and  we  can't  make  it  all  right  any  other 
way.  We  've  got  to  arrange  it  between  our 
selves,  —  me  and  you  and  your  mother.  And, 
honest,  I  can't  see  any  other  way  out  of  it;  and 
I  think  you  're  a  real  nice  girl,  'Mandy.  I  like 
you  —  so  I  do.  Now,  if  you  can  only  just  make 
up  your  mind  to  me?" 

Amanda  Gedge  put  her  hand  down  on  the 
grass  as  though  she  were  groping  for  some  other 
hand  to  help  her.  "Oh,  what  shall  I  do? "  she 
said. 


280      A  FOURTH-CLASS  APPOINTMENT. 

William  Sprague  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
then  remembered  the  imprudence  of  sitting  on 
the  grass  in  April,  and  rose.  "I  thought  it  all 
out,"  he  assured  her,  "and  it  come  to  me  last 
night  all  of  a  sudden.  4  Well,  there !  '  says  I  to 
myself,  '  and  we  neither  of  us  thought  of  it !  ' 
But  it 's  the  only  thing  to  do.  It  will  straighten 
out  everything.  What  do  you  say,  'Mandy?" 

But  she  had  nothing  to  say.  She  saw  the  bit 
of  dim  glass  in  the  slate  headstone,  and  caught 
the  last  line  of  the  inscription,  "Mourned  by 
his  friends."  She  put  her  hands  over  her  face. 
"Oh,  Willie!  "she  said. 

"Well,  now,  there!  that's  right,"  said  Wil 
liam,  heartily.  "My  first  wife  called  me  that, 
and  I  like  to  hear  it  again.  We  '11  get  along 
first  rate,  'Mandy,  —  me  and  you  and  Jimmy 
and  the  old  lady.  Come,  now,  it 's  all  settled, 
ain't  it?" 

She  drew  a  half-sobbing  breath  before  she 
could  speak.  "  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know! 
I  think  I  '11  go  home  now,  Mr.  Sprague.  I 
thank  you;  indeed  I  do;  but  I  must  see  mo 
ther.  I  must  go  home.  Oh,  it  will  save 
mother.  Oh,  you  are  very  kind  to  think  of 
it  — William." 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


